Making History
by BlkDog16
Summary: Bradford's assault takes its toll on Ben, and as Caleb struggles between his duties and caring for his friend, a deeper plot to take down Washington is revealed. (Thank-you to SpaceCowboy for the new plot summary)
1. Bruised Flesh and Egos

_Morristown, New Jersey_

General Washington stared out the window of his borrowed headquarters, a widower's mansion and the finest home in the area. Standing in the private study of a dead man, Colonel Jacob Ford Jr., he watched the storm clouds roll in; the darkened skies matched his mood. Word was that a fistfight had broken out at the officer's camp and the news had left him seething. The army was beginning to fracture while the whole world watched, and he felt powerless to stop it.

The clouds opened up and a torrent of rain poured over the camp. It seemed to Washington as though even the Heavens were heavy too. Lost in thought he nearly missed the door to the study crack open as Major Tallmadge slip in. Turning from the window he noted the angry bruises peppering the major's face. Tallmadge lowered his eyes upon catching the General's gaze. Washington regarded the injuries with feigned disinterest, while his storm gray eyes flickered briefly with rage. It appeared the rumors were true.

"Major." He greeted with a frosty tone.

Between the mix of pain and exhaustion, a small nod was all Ben could manage. What he had thought was "just a scratch" had begun to throb in the middle of the night making it impossible to sleep. Come morning he had awoke to a crimson stained pillow and nasal passages sticky with congealed blood. He found even the simple act of dressing to be a challenge, as he pulled a fresh shirt over ribs still aching from a well-placed kick. When it came time to putting on his coat his shoulders and forearms, bruised and stiff, had protested greatly. The walk to headquarters had been excruciating.

Washington sat down and opened his notes, when he noticed Ben still standing he raised an open palm gesturing him to sit. Ben eyed the chair with a resigned look. Washington might as well of asked him to have a seat in a torture device. Gradually, he sank into the chair and set about trying to find a position that would allow as little of his body as possible to come into contact with the chair. He suppressed a grimace when his attempts failed, and slowly opened his notes. Washington watched intently but was otherwise silent.

"Will your courier be joining us?" Washington asked when Ben finally settled on rather precarious perch at the far edge of his seat.

To be honest, Ben wasn't sure. He hadn't seen Caleb since they had parted ways last night and Caleb hadn't bothered to stop by his tent this morning, as was his usual ritual. Ben had written it off as Caleb just being Caleb; a man of his own in every way, he was prone to a certain amount of unpredictability. Though it was true that Caleb hadn't been impressed by Washington's latest orders, his parting words hadn't given Ben any cause to believe that he wouldn't show, so he really had no explanation for Caleb's tardiness.

"Well he…" Ben started.

Before Ben had the opportunity to finish the door to the private office swung open and a sopping wet Caleb Brewster strolled in, filling the entire room with his exuding presence. "Morning General." Caleb greeted, his face splitting into a smile so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled. "Major Tall…" His words cut off at the sight of Ben's unusually colorful face, and his mouth dropped open. Ben shook his head, locking eyes with Caleb, he silently pleaded for him to let it be. When Caleb stood frozen in place, still gaping, Ben flicked his eyes towards the table and with a slight nod, invited Caleb to have a seat. Caleb sat down slowly, widening his eyes at Ben who looked away, ignoring the look of concern washing over his friend's face.

Washington watched as the silent exchange unfolded before him. It was obvious to him that Lieutenant Brewster had not been aware of the extent of the injuries that had been sustained during the brawl. Clearly the scuffle had been taken too far. He suppressed a sigh, if only the two knew how much more damage then bruised flesh and egos their little scrap had the propensity to cause. Unfortunately a more pressing matter was at stake, and that was the gathering of intelligence, or the lack thereof. He cleared his throat. Simultaneously, Ben lifted his eyes from his notes while Caleb slowly turned his attention away from staring intently at his best friend.

"I've summoned you both here today to discuss where we are at with the latest intelligence gathering. In our last meeting, Major Tallmadge, I advised you of the dire need of information and yet I have not heard anything since. It appears," he continued, "as though we have reached a standstill. Which leads me to believe either Mr. Cul- _per_ " Washington said, annunciating the new name Abe had chosen for himself, "was not properly briefed on the importance of gathering intelligence in a timely manner or he is simply unable to do so and therefore another source needs to be forged immediately. We simply cannot afford to waste anymore time sitting in the dark."

"Sir, time was impressed upon Woo…I mean Mr. Culper, but we established a protocol from the very beginning, that he was only to signal when it is _safe_ andnot just _timely_ to do so." Caleb said, immediately jumping to Abe's defense. "With respect…Sir."

"I see. Then another source must be cultivated, you are dismissed Lieutenant Brewester. Major Tall…" Washington replied.

"Culper signaled early this morning. I'll leave camp as soon as night falls." Caleb interrupted, cutting Washington off just as he was about to launch into Ben with another lecture on having had sufficient time to seek out new informants.

Now it was Ben's turn to gape. He stared at Caleb, as Caleb gazed triumphantly back at Washington. So that's where he had been this morning, Ben mused. When Caleb caught him looking at him as if he had grown a second head he shrugged nonchalantly, it wasn't his fault that he hadn't had time to notify Ben of the signal before getting summoned by Washington. Ben shot Caleb his best "we will talk about this later look" to which Caleb rolled his eyes at as if to say, "I know." Inwardly, Ben breathed a sigh of relief; this was just the break he needed after he and Washington's last _"discussion."_

"And were you aware of this Major Tallmadge?" Washington asked, turning his attention to Ben.

"He was. I briefed him as soon as I found out." Caleb advised before Ben could respond.

Washington considered the major and lieutenant intently. Ben, a now forced participant in Caleb's little white lie, did his best to return Washington's regard with poise but the blood from his nose was now draining down the back of his throat and it was beginning to make him nauseous. To make matters worse his head was beginning to throb and his whole body felt like one giant bruise. He prayed the remainder of the meeting would be brief so that he could slip away to his tent and tend to his wounds. Caleb simply stared back at the general and smiled.

"Very well. See to it that Culper's report is delivered to me at once Major." Washington ordered.

"Yes sir." Ben replied.

"You're both dismissed."

Point proven, Caleb bounded up from his chair and happily made his way out the door, whistling as he went. Ben on the other hand rose more slowly, and gingerly set about gathering his notes. It was evident to Washington that the Major was struggling. Against his better judgment, he stood as the Major exited.

"Major Tallmadge." He called after the disappearing form.

Ben's eyes closed and he stopped in his tracks. Fearing another lecture, he slowly made his way back to the study where Washington was waiting in the doorway.

"While I appreciate the defense, I cannot condone your activities last night." Washington stated plainly.

Ben's mouth dropped open, and he briefly considered arguing that it was Bradford whose activities should be in question, but he was far too tired. Clamping his jaw shut he simply nodded.

Washington's expression softened ever so slightly.

"And see to it that your injuries are taken care of." He added.

"Yes sir." Ben stated with the meekly.

"You are dismissed." Washington advised, promptly closing the door behind him.

Ben stood there for a moment, blinking rapidly at the closed door and his mood darkened. How the man could simply turn a blind eye to the blatant disrespect, not to mention the threats to his very leadership was beyond him. Remembering Caleb's suggestion from the night before, he turned slowly and began making his way towards the front of the borrowed headquarters, trying his best to ignore his protesting ribs and aching head. Stepping out from the mansion he found the rain had lifted as a bright sun and Caleb greeted him warmly.

"Aye, Tallboy!" Caleb said with a smile, wrapping his arm around Ben's shoulders.

Ben cried out when Caleb's arms made contact with his bruised shoulders, and he instinctively pulled away, causing Caleb's smile to fade instantly.

"Some _scratch_ you've got there Benny," he commented, glowering as he looked Ben over.

Ben's lips pressed together. He hadn't missed the emphasis on scratch, nor the hint of sarcasm in Caleb's voice but he was too exhausted to argue. He simply nodded, acknowledging that Caleb was upset, before setting off towards his tent. Caleb let out a growl of frustration and jogged after him.

"Come on Ben, is this about pulling the wool over Washington's eyes a little?" He asked when he finally caught up with him.

Ben turned, facing Caleb. "No, but now that you've brought it up, would you mind telling me in the future before you go pulling a stunt like that?" He snarled.

Caleb stepped back a little, raising his hands in a mock surrender. "It was a little white lie Benny. I was just trying to keep you in good with the General." He said with a smirk that told Ben he really wasn't all that sorry.

Ben sighed, knowing he was letting his own frustrations and lack of sleep get the best of him. "I know why you did it Caleb, and I appreciate it. I just…don't like lying to the Commander."

Caleb's expression grew serious. "Are you alright?"

Ben stared hard at Caleb who started to giggle.

"You're such an ass sometimes Brewster." He exclaimed rolling his eyes as he began to walk away.

"Oh, come on now Ben. That was funny!" Caleb cried, grabbing ahold of his shoulder to stop him.

Ben winced, letting out a hiss as he suppressed a scream.

Caleb released his grasp as if he had touched coals, alarm washing over his features.

"Bradford really did a number on ya didn't he?" He asked.

Ben scowled at the mention of Bradford and didn't answer. He hated to admit that the man had even remotely succeeded in his attempt to cause harm last night; though undoubtedly had Caleb not intervened the outcome would have been much worse.

"Tell you what, you get yourself back to your tent and I'll go find Kitchi. His grandfather was some sort of medicine man, I'm sure he's got some potion or something that will get you feeling better in no time." Caleb suggested while steering Ben in the right direction without waiting for a reply.

Ben made his way back to his tent without argument. In truth he was happy to retire to his quarters, his range of motion was rapidly decreasing as the swelling and stiffness increased. With a painful sigh he sat down at the edge of his desk chair and waited. Cradling his aching head in the palms of his hands he nearly nodded off when the sound of tent flaps opening startled him. Without moving he slid his eyes towards the entrance just as Caleb walked in. In his hands he carried steaming cup of tea which he carefully set down on the desk before him, along with bandages, no doubt commandeered from the Medical Station, and a small canister of a dark substance, which he tossed onto Ben's bed.

Ben crinkled his nose as the aroma of the tea struck his nasal passages. "That smells awful."

"Don't it?" Caleb replied with a smile. "He said it's the best cure for a headache though, and it should help ease the pain."

"What is it?"

"Hell if I know." Caleb replied with a shrug.

Ben took a cautious slip and nearly chocked. He couldn't think of anything to compare the horrendous taste of the liquid that was currently assaulting his taste buds. It was a mix between a bad batch of ale, earth, and bitterroot. He set the tea down and pushed it away from him while shaking his head.

"I'm not drinking that."

"Come on, it can't be that bad."

"Then you drink it." Ben replied.

"I'm not the idiot who picked a fight with three commanding officers, only to end up on the loosing end of Bradford's fist, now drink up you." Caleb ordered, placing the mug back in Ben's hand.

Ben stared back at him defiantly while making no motion to drink the potent brew.

"Don't make me force you." Caleb warned.

"I'm letting it cool." He said flatly, setting down the tea with a sigh.

"Right, well in the mean time, lets take a look at those bastards handiwork." Caleb stated, and gently began easing Ben's coat off his shoulders. Ben hissed but didn't pull away, and Caleb did the same with his vest, tie, and shirt. His bare skin now exposed, Ben felt tiny bumps begin to rise as the coolness of spring coiled around him. He resisted the urge to shiver outwardly and looked up to find Caleb standing before him, clearly appalled at what he was seeing. Following Caleb's gaze he looked down at the deep bruising that covered his shoulders and biceps and found that his ribs were also covered in a mix of angry red and purple blotches.

"I thought you said it was _just_ _a scratch_ ," Caleb growled ferociously.

"It _was_ last night. The bruises didn't show up until this morning."

Caleb simply shook his head; he was not amused.

"When I get my hands on Bradford…" He started, his eyes igniting with an unbridled anger that Ben knew to be dangerous when left unchecked.

"You'll leave Bradford alone. Washington made it clear that he was not impressed with what happened last night."

"And does Washington know that his precious Bradford did all this?" Caleb hissed through clenched teeth, pointing at Ben's battered body.

"Washington doesn't care who did what, he just wants it to stop, so it ends with us. Besides, it's not like you didn't get a few good hits in yourself. You saw Bradford's lip before he ran off." He reminded Caleb.

"They had you pinned down. That's not even a fair fight!"

"Just leave it alone Caleb."

Caleb said nothing, but Ben was familiar with way his was jaw set. The argument was over for now; though Ben noted that no promises had been made one way or another. He would readdress that later, but right now he was freezing and his tired mind was begging for sleep. Noticing Ben had started to shiver, Caleb sprung into action, mixing up the concoction that Kitchi had given him.

"Drink your tea." He commanded when he noticed Ben watching him tiredly.

Ben took a sip and made a face.

"All of it." Caleb ordered.

Ben quickly downed the remainder of the foul tasting beverage, presuming that if he drank it fast enough he'd be less likely taste it. Caleb offered a small smile when he placed the empty mug triumphantly on the desk before him, but didn't look up from preparing the bandages.

"Good. Now stand up so I can put this salve on you."

Ben cautiously stood, teetering slightly.

"Easy there Tallboy, this will only take a minute." Caleb said, reaching out awkwardly while trying to grab ahold of the only part of Ben's arm that wasn't black and blue. He settled for an elbow and carefully steadied his friend. When Ben was firmly planted on his feet Caleb set about rubbing the putrid poultice over his wounds. Ben winced and moved away as he reached his ribs and Caleb scowled.

"Think a few of these might be broken Benny-boy."

Ben sighed, he had thought as much.

"Not much we can do, but bandage them tight. They'll heal on their own."

Ben nodded, giving his permission to carry on and Caleb finished what he had begun. After the rub was applied, he wrapped Ben's ribcage tightly with the bandages. Despite his best efforts to be gentle Ben still jerked with pain when he reached a certain two ribs, confirming his suspicions. He tied off the bandages and carefully pulled a clean shirt over Ben's head.

Thankful it was over; Ben slowly sat down at the edge of his cot. He was starting to feel a bit woozy and it felt good just to sit down. As his body began to relax his eyes felt as though someone had tied weights to them, and he found himself struggling to keep them open.

"Ye alright there Benny?" Caleb asked with an amused smile.

Ben blinked slowly and deliberately as if trying to clear the sleep from his eyes.

Caleb grinned. "Feeling a bit tired are we?"

Ben nodded.

"Aye, Kitchi warned that that might happen." Caleb told him, still smiling. "Course, it could be the brandy I snuck in there too."

Ben's mouth dropped open slightly as his face took on a lethargic look of surprise and Caleb struggled not to burst out laughing.

"Relax Ben. I didn't put a whole lot in; Kitchi said the tea would knock you out. I just wanted to make extra sure that busy head of yours would shut off so you can get some good sleep."

Ben's mind felt like cotton, warm and fuzzy. He wanted to protest but his thoughts drifted away from him before he could latch on to them. Finally he resigned to the only logical response he could come up with, which was a silent nod. Barely stifling a yawn, he stared blankly ahead, trying to think of what to do next. Caleb solved that dilemma by gently pushing him down on the cot. From there his friend carefully tucked his legs beneath the covers before pulling them up around his chin.

"You rest up, and I'll go make the run. I'll be back before you know it and you can deliver the news to Washington first thing in the morning." Caleb advised.

Ben's eyes were already drooping shut as Caleb made his way towards the entrance of the tent; he smiled when Ben mumbled a sleepy "be safe" to his parting backside.

"See you soon Benny-boy. Sleep well." Caleb replied to his friends sleeping form.

With that Caleb exited the tent, whistling made his way to the shoreline where his boat was waiting. His thoughts turned dark as he passed by Bradford's tent, but he heeded Ben's warning, for now. After all, there was a more important task at hand. As he set sail he was keenly aware that depending on what Abe had to say; by this time tomorrow everything could change. As the pitch black of a moonless night enveloped him he checked the stars and pointed his boat towards the shores of his childhood home. _Well,_ he thought silently to himself his boat easily cut through the current of the river, _here's to making history._


	2. Morning After

While Caleb's whale boat was cutting through darkened waters making its way towards the shores of Setauket, the brandy was making its way through Ben's bloodstream, and luring him to sleep. It was a welcomed deviation from his usual night time routine of lying awake for hours going over every detail until his mind finally gave way to exhaustion. As the tea and brandy pulled him deeper into sleep the pain gave away to dark nothingness, much to his relief. A sigh escaped him as he drifted still deeper into a dark and dreamless sleep.

A colony away, Caleb's boat struck the familiar shores of his childhood home. He exited quickly and quietly, making his way up the slight incline to where the drop tree stood. Reaching into the tree's hollow he smiled as his hand wrapped around a small tin full of Abe and Anna's reports. Securing the carefully folded intelligence into a secret pocket sewn into the lining of his boot he stood, scanning the forest for British soldiers and wayward townsmen. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he did, catching him off guard. He had spent most of his boyhood years anxious to replace this small town with the adventure of far off places, but as he stood on its forbidden shores he found himself overcome with the fond memories of the many childhood adventures that had taken place in these woods. Smiling sadly, he tipped his hat to the memories and backed his way down towards his boat.

He guided his boat gently into the sound. The boat rocked as he got in and then righted itself again when he seated himself at the stern. Taking the oars in hand, he felt the familiarity of the coarse wood slip into his palms as he gripped them firmly before dipping them into the water. Muscles in his chest and arms came alive when he pulled the oars close to his chest before pushing them back out again in a well practiced rhythm. As his boat slipped silently into the night beneath a blanket of stars, he found himself humming old forgotten tune his mother used to sing.

A bugle sounded in the distance announcing that morning had come. Its staccato notes slowly drug Ben begrudgingly towards a level of consciousness that he instantly regretted. His mouth felt like a hot summers day, dry and sticky all at once, and there was a pounding in his head unlike any he had ever experienced before. Even the regrettable mornings that followed after a few extra rigorous "study sessions" in college hadn't amounted to the way he felt right now. With a sigh he rolled onto his side and his stomach rolled too, demanding that he empty its meager contents.

He ignored the request, and focused his attention on rising without jarring his wounded ribs. Stiff muscles did their best to hinder the task, but eventually he was able to arrange himself into a seated position on the edge of his cot. A moan escaped his lips as he closed his eyes against a nauseating wave of vertigo. Now fully awake, there was no denying it, he felt absolutely awful. _What was in that tea?_

As the wave of nausea passed he slowly opened his eyes. The tent spun, and he quickly squeezed them shut again, while making a mental note never to trust any medicinal "tea" coming from Caleb again. Outside the tent he heard the camp beginning to come to life. Coming to the realization that time was running out before his absence would be noticed he swallowed hard against the nausea and pulled himself to his feet to begin the painful process of getting dressed. When he finished tiny beads of sweat lined his brow, he wiped them away with a trembling hand.

Caleb reached New Jersey just as the sun had begun its slow rise on the eastern horizon. _Just in the knick of time,_ he thought to himself. Soon the sound and shoreline would be teaming with British patrols. He quickly dragged the boat up the shore to its hiding place and set about camouflaging it with nearby branches and brush. Dusting off his hands he paused to breathed in the scent of the open water, committing the it to memory until he would return to it once more. His eyes flicked towards the rising sun and he realized he would have to hurry if he wanted to get back to Morristown by nightfall. He set off at hasty pace towards the home of Peter O'Connor, a local Patriot who had agreed to look the other way if his horse happened to find her way into his stable from time to time.

Upon reaching the line that separated fields from forest Caleb stood frozen at the edge for several minutes, watching from the safety of the trees. On the other side of the field farm hands went about their business, preparing the ground for spring crops. From the homestead a cloud of smoke drifted lazily out the chimney, filling the air with the comforting scent of burning wood. In the yard, laundry hung on the clothesline, drying with the help of a gentle breeze. The sight was picturesque indeed. Confident he was safe, Caleb broke cover and strolled nonchalantly up the dirt driveway, doing his best to appear as if he though belonged. Focused on reaching the stables, he missed the subtle stir of a curtain falling back into place.

"Major Tallmadge."

Ben's rank and name wove their way into his muddled mind. He was seated, hunched over his desk with his eyes closed desperately rubbing his temples. Splayed before him was a book of French codes, currently on loan from Mr. Sackett. He had opened it in hopes that he would somehow manage to grasp the context he was reading, but his throbbing head and upset stomach had made that increasingly difficult. Now to make matters worse, it seemed as though he had now been caught in the act of trying to quell his misery. He stopped rubbing his temples, and opened his eyes. Turning to his left he found Washington's personal servant standing in the doorway of his tent, peering at him with a furrowed brow.

"Billy." He greeted him half heartedly.

Billy regarded Ben with an expression of worry, unsure of how to proceed. The major looked decidedly unwell, even the shadows of the tent could not hide the paleness of his skin and red rimmed eyes. "Sorry to bother you, sir." He ventured after a brief hesitation, concern evident in his voice.

"No bother, I was just…" Ben paused as an untimely bought of nausea struck him hard. Shutting his eyes, he swallowed firmly against it, and exhaled slowly. "Going over some readings, compliments of Mr. Sackett." He finished weakly, offering a thin smile in a pitiful attempt to defuse the young man's alarm.

Unconvinced, Billy shifted uneasily from one foot to other trying to decide what to do next. As a servant he knew the Major's condition was none of his business, but as a human being concerned for the well being of another, it was evident the major was suffering. _Any man with half a mind could see that_ he argued with himself. Unfortunately, his options were limited, the Commander had requested Major's presence, and it was his duty to advise the Major of that request, regardless of whether or not he thought the Major was up to the task.

"The General requests your presence, sir." He said with lowered eyes, instantly regretting it as Ben's face noticeably fell.


	3. Patriot Lovers and Pardons

A black mare greeted him with a soft nicker from deep within the stables as he entered the building. A bit on the stocky side, she stood below most of the other steeds in the stable, but he didn't mind. What she lacked in size she made up for in speed. He'd lost count of the number times when he thought she had given him her all and couldn't possibly give anymore, only to have her come through at the last second. It was a quality that had saved both their lives on more then one occasion. She began to toss her head as he drew closer and his face split into a broad smile.

"Hey there little lady," he cooed, coming to a stop before her and grabbing ahold of her bridal.

She began nudging him and he laughed, knowing what she wanted.

"Yeah, yeah I missed you too." He said, gently stroking the side of her neck. Her skin, pulled taunt over muscle, twitched as he did so and she pawed at the ground impatiently. "Alright, alright." He lifted his hands in mock surrender, before reaching deep into one of his pockets and producing small red apple. He'd been saving it just for her. Greedily, she wrenched the apple from his hand, turning away from him to eat it.

"Have to admit, I'm starting to feel a bit used here Blackie." He quipped sarcastically.

She snorted her response and continued munching happily. Shaking his head, he suppressed a yawn. It had been a long night, and there was still the ride back to Morristown ahead. _No sense in delaying the inevitable,_ he thought with a sigh as he readied his tack. He gently placed the saddle pad and saddle across Blackie's back. Having finished her apple, she turned and gave him an appreciative nudge.

"Oh now you say thank-you." He retorted. She stared back at him with her big brown eyes, her ears erect and facing forward. Her nostrils flared as she studied her rider intently. "Don't you worry. I'm not the least bit tired." He lied. She nuzzled him again. "Okay, maybe I'm a little tired." He confessed.

…

"Major." General Washington stated, briefly glancing up before returning his attention to cluster of maps spread out in disarray on the table before him.

"Sir." Ben greeted in return.

He could feel Billy watching him closely from across the room. He couldn't blame him, on the way here his stomach had finally given up its formal protest and taken a more forceful approach. Consequently, he ended up doubled over and retching in a line of trees a few yards to the east of the mansion. Billy of course rushed to his side, but Ben had pushed him off, backing away like a wounded animal, refusing to be touched.

"Major, you're not well!" Billy protested with a panicked look.

Ben hadn't answered. Once the dry heaves subsided he straightened himself and stood, panting heavily against the pain and nausea. Wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, he turned and slowly made his way back towards Washington's headquarters on wobbly legs, with Billy following close behind. When they reached the corridor that lead to Washington's office Billy stepped out in front of him, placing an arm across the door frame, effectively blocking his entrance.

"Major, I can tell the General that you're ill." Billy offered in a whisper.

Ben looked into the dark brown eyes regarding him, and saw only concern reflecting back in them. The offer was certainly enticing. The throbbing in his head had soared to a whole new level, and was now pounding in his ears. Battered ribs shot white hot pain searing through his body with every breath, while stiff muscles protested his every move. His stomach, subdued for the moment after he had finally met its demands was the only thing that didn't seem to hurt. Still, if he backed down now word of his injuries would spread and it wouldn't take long for Bradford to make the connection. He refused to give the man that satisfaction.

"I'm fine." He said weakly.

Billy made a noise of disapproval with the click his tongue. Seeing that the Ben wasn't going to back down, he shook his head at the other man's stubbornness and thrust a folded white handkerchief in his direction. Ben stared back at him with a quizzical look.

"You're covered in sweat, and it's not even warm out." He said flatly. When Ben made no move to take the cloth, he sighed. "At least wipe your face off."

Ben had taken the handkerchief, and sheepishly mumbled his thanks.

…

"There's coffee on the stove." A voice announced from the entry way of the stables.

Startled, Caleb ducked beneath Blackie, placing the mare between himself and the intruder, while his hand simultaneously reached for the tomahawk hidden in the folds of his saddle. His face broke into a broad smile when he saw who the voice belonged to, and he stepped out from behind the steed.

"Caitlin, you know the rules." He warned, though admittedly he was happy to see her. Her auburn hair hung loose around her shoulders drawing his attention to her delicate neck. From there he followed the length of her emerald dress, noting the way the fabric tapered across her body accentuating her every curve while bringing out the green in her eyes. She was certainly a sight for sore eyes. She grinned as his eyes drifted back up the length of her body to meet her eyes once more and she pushed off the door frame, blatantly ignoring his words of caution.

"That's never stopped us before." She whispered in a low voice, flashing her eyes at him as she came to a stop in front of him. She was so close he could smell the scent of fresh rose petals and lavender wafting from her skin. He groaned inwardly, knowing he needed to get back to camp at once, and not to mention there was the issue of getting caught.

"Yes but it's daylight now, someone might see." He said, shifting his weight to the side so that he could peer around her, his deep brown eyes roaming for intruders.

"Relax Brewster, my father went to town."

"It's not just your father I'm worried about." He countered, thinking of Caitlin's five brothers whom he was relatively certain wouldn't hesitate to bring down their father's wrath in his stead.

"You worry too much." She teased, leaning into him. Her lips formed into a 'come hither smile' and she was so close he could count every beautiful freckle on her face. To make matters worse she wrapped her arms his neck and began gently kissing the length of his jaw bone. His eyes closed when her lips found to his, and he felt his resolve break. Clasping strong hands around her waist, he lifted her up pushing her back against the boards of the stable returning her kiss with unrestrained passion.

…

"What news do you have from your courier?" Washington inquired.

Ben sighed inwardly at his failure to plan ahead. He should have known Washington would be anxious for follow up after Caleb had informed him of the signal. In theory he should have returned by now, however Caleb had gotten a delayed start after tending to his injuries. If he would have sent word of Caleb's late departure this whole predicament could have been avoided. "Lt. Brewster had a later start then originally planned. He hasn't returned to camp as of yet, Sir."

"I see." Washington replied, noting the way the major appeared to be strategically avoiding the direct sunlight pouring in from the window. He took a step away from the table, closing the distance between the himself and the Major, drawing near for a closer look.

Instinctively Ben took a step back and Billy cleared his throat softly from the corner of the room. Distracted Washington looked in Billy's direction to find him tiding up a pile of papers on his desk. He recognized the papers as the dispatches that had arrived early this morning. The Major could certainly busy himself reading over those until his courier returned.

"The dispatches, please." Washington requested.

"Yes sir." Billy replied, handing over a stack papers which Ben noted were blessedly few.

"Major." Washington said, holding the papers with an outstretched hand and inviting the Major to take them.

Ben took a cautious step in the direction of the General who was currently standing directly in a pool of afternoon sun. Stepping out of the shadows, he tried desperately not to wince as the light struck his eyes. Washington watched blue eyes narrow and blink against the sun. As the sun poured over him, he observed that the bruising on the the Major's face was now enhanced by the contrast of ashen skin and he took note of the Ben wavered ever so slightly standing before him. He withdrew the papers and paused.

The Major looked considerably unwell, knowing it was most likely due to the lingering ramifications of the scuffle that had taken place the night before, he internally debated whether or not to relinquish the Major from any added duties for the day. He knew that Ben would accomplish the task, despite his ailments, but at what cost? If he allowed the major to run himself into the ground, he would be of no use in the days to come. But then, did injuries sustained from an unnecessary quarrel warrant such a pardon? Pursing his lips in thought he looked up to find both Ben and Billy studying him carefully.

"When is Lt. Brewster due back at camp?" He asked.

"If all goes well, by nightfall, Sir." Ben replied.

"Good. I expect a full intelligence report and briefing on his findings upon his return."

"Yes sir."

"Until then, you are dismissed." Washington advised.

With a nod Ben turned on his heel and exited the office. Once in safety of the hallway he leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was beginning to noticeably tremble as his body, rebelling against the lack of food and hydration, broke into a cold sweat. Swallowing hard he pushed off the wall, his only goal being to make it back to his tent. From the window of his office Washington watched as Ben stumbled down the steps, wincing against the sun. The major ducked his head low and the pain was evident in his gate.

"Billy, see to it that the Major finds his way to his tent." he said, turning towards his trusted servant.

"Yes sir." Billy replied. He quickly crossed the short distance of the room and was halfway down the hallway when Washington called after him from the doorframe.

"And Billy, please notify the men he is not to be bothered for the remainder of the day."

Billy nodded his understanding of the General's unspoken request.


	4. Tea and Brandy

As calloused hands sailed their way through the folds of an emerald sea of fabric a sigh escaped pretty pink lips, swollen from the passion of a lover's kiss. Caleb paused, taking a moment to drink in the sweetness of her scent, and the beauty of her delicate features. Her brows knit together; and an expression of pleasure was replaced with an impatient scowl. When green eyes fluttered open to find brown eyes fixated upon her, a slow smile drifted across her face. The two remained that way, eyes locked on one another, each silently daring the other to make the first move. She felt her pulse race with anticipation as he leaned in closer, when his face broke into a triumphant smile she knew he had felt it too. Grinning, she kept her eyes locked on his and leaned in too, until nearly nothing separated their lips, and they were breathing the same breath.

"Caitlin?" Her father's voice called from just outside the barn.

Caleb jerked as though struck by lighting, and suddenly she was falling. Hitting the straw covered floor at the same that the heavy stable doors swung open, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Frozen with fear she watched Caleb's boots quickly stepped in front of her with a quick flick of the reigns his mare danced into position behind him. Together they shielded her from view.

"Mr. O'Connor." Caleb greeted the elderly man cordially.

"Caleb." Peter O'Connor greeted with a slight look of bewilderment. "I saw that Blackie made her way in here late last night, but didn't expect ta see the likes of you 'round here so soon."

As the sound of her father's voice drew closer Caitlin's breath caught in her throat. Slowly she crawled backwards on hands and knees, moving even deeper into the stall. Blackie sidestepped and stomped her feet at the sudden intrusion but quickly settled with the gentle stroke of Caleb's hand. Pressing herself into the corner she leaned her head against the boards, closed her eyes and began to pray that her father to be brief.

"Bit of a quick turn around this time." Caleb replied, trying his best to keep his tone even while nervous sweat collected along his brow.

O'Connor nodded, leaving it at that knowing full well that the less he knew the safer he and his family would be.

"Well I won't keep ya then. 'Slan abhaile." O'Conner answered.

Caleb smiled and nodded his thanks at the Irishman's farewell, though he had no idea what he had said. As Caitlin's father reached the end of the barn Caleb turned his eyes to the heavens and thanked whoever up there was listening.

"Oh, have ya seen Caitlin? Her mother said something about her going to clean the stables." O'Connor asked, turning to look back over his shoulder.

"No, I um…" Caleb stammered, "Haven't seen anyone." He replied, his cheeks flushing bright red. "Or ah, Caitlin," He coughed. "That is."

Mr. O'Connor eyed him for a long while, and it seemed to Caleb as if he were trying to decide between taking him at his word and investigating the matter further. Finally he nodded, and headed out the doors.

Caleb let out a rush of air as he breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled Blackie from the stall and found Caitlin wrestling with the buttons on the front of her dress. He stared at her with a quizzical expression, and she let out an exasperated sigh. "No sense in it now Caleb, he'll be back shortly if he doesn't find me." She explained. "Besides, the mood is gone now, don't ye think?"

Caleb smiled as she stood; her pretty face was crossed with sharp lines of pure frustration. Leaning in to kiss her he whispered, "Why don't we see if I can make it come back?" She dodged his kiss as she moved her hands to her hips.

"Ye'd best be on your way anyhow. Soon enough that forest is going to be full of redcoats on patrol."

"Lobsters don't scare me." He responded with a grin.

"Well they scare me plenty enough for the both of us then."

Not only was she right but Caleb also knew that she had made up her mind indefinitely about the matter and that arguing would be futile. He left a parting kiss on her cheek, and mounted his steed. "I'll be back soon." He promised.

"Slan abhaile, Brewster." She replied.

"I still have no idea what that means."

"It means travel safe."

He grinned down at her. "Always."

With a click of his tongue he urged Blackie forward. As horse and rider approached the doors of the stable Caleb turned and looked back one final time. She smiled at him and then he was gone. Caitlin closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the horse hooves thundering down the drive, carrying her lover away.

…

By the time Ben reached his tent he was beginning to feel woozy. Closing the tent flaps behind him he staggered over to his cot. Had it not been for his damaged ribs not, he more than likely would have simply collapsed onto the bed, but damaged his ribs were and so instead he slowly lowered himself onto the cot. While aching muscles celebrated their reprieve his stomach rebelled the instant his body became horizontal. He groaned; he just couldn't win today. Rolling over he hugged a pillow against his aching belly, and curled on his side into the fetal position. Soon his eyes began to drift closed.

As he slipped into a restless sleep, Billy quietly made his way into the tent. He watched as the young man's breathing quickened and slowed with the uneven rhythm typical of a fitful sleep. Occasionally it was broken by a soft moan or whimper, and then the major would grow quiet again. Having confirmed that Ben had made it back to the tent he turned to go, but felt suddenly compelled to offer the simple comfort of a cool cloth on a pale brow, glistening with sweat. As he did so bloodshot eyes cracked open and bore into his before sliding closed again.

A whisper of thanks was mumbled into the blankets, so soft Billy nearly missed it, and then the tent was silent once more. Outside the men bustled about and called to one another across the camp, but as they drew near to the ailing major's tent their voices lowered and their footsteps hurried past. Billy smiled to himself, word had spread that Major Tallmadge was to be left alone. A glance back at the sleeping form left Billy relatively confident that young man had no intentions of leaving the tent. He poured a glass of water and placed it on the table beside the major's bed before he left to discuss tonight's dinner preparations for the General and ranking staff with the camp cook.

…

Caleb's head dipped for the third time, jolting him awake. He glanced around at his surroundings, trying to judge just how long he had been asleep. To his pleasant surprise he found that Blackie had remained true to the route despite her sleeping rider. From the looks of it they were approximately 5 miles out from the Patriot lines, and another 10 from camp. With any luck he'd be back to camp within the next few hours. He widened his eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to force himself to wake up. Stifling a yawn he nudged the mare into an easy lope, hoping the faster pace would not only keep him awake, but also expedite the final leg of the journey. Blackie willingly complied and quickly advanced along well-worn deer path.

Despite the quickened pace, sleep deprivation caught with him once more. Soon his eyes grew heavy and he no longer bothered suppressing the yawns. On his last blink his eyes stayed closed just a tad more longer then usual and he felt himself beginning to nod off. As he was considering taking a short break, Blackie promptly came to a dead stop. His body lurched forwards and then backwards as his momentum came to a screeching halt. As he struggled to right himself Blackie let out scream and the suddenly the saddle beneath him went vertical, and then he was falling.

Clutching the reigns without thinking he caused Blackie's head to jerk to the side. Her body followed her head and soon the thousand pound animal was tumbling through the air with him. The second he struck the ground he was moving, trying desperately to get out of the horse's path. She fell hard, and rolled onto his right leg. He cried out as he felt his knee twist beneath her. Luckily the mare immediately set about righting herself again and quickly rolled off of him. He released the reigns and after a brief struggle she gathered her legs beneath her and stood, eyes rolling at the line of trees before them.

"What the hell's gotten into you?" Caleb growled bitterly as he gathered his hat from the ground and dusted it off.

Blackie's only response was a nostril flare, as her eyes remained deadlocked on the tree line. Caleb peered into the direction she was staring and noticed a large bolder covered in moss and fallen trees. "A rock? That's what's got you spooked?" He said with a grimace as he tried pulling his injured knee towards his body to stand. The knee, already beginning to swell refused to cooperate. Using his hands and good leg he slid backwards towards a tree as he formulated Plan B. Just as he was about to shove off against the firm trunk Blackie's ears flattened and he caught the flash of red as it came out from around the boulder.

…

Billy returned to Ben's tent to find the young officer doubled over and vomiting painfully into a basin. He stood patiently at the major's side. When the retching subsided Ben's eyes began to close, and he silently pressed a wet cloth into the major's hand. He regarded the cloth with a forlorn look, as though just holding the cloth took great effort. Finally with a sigh and trembling hands he lifted the moist cloth and drug it down the length of his face and neck before dropping it at his side. As Billy removed the basin he noted that the contents, though sparse had a sickly yellow tint to them.

"Your stomach's empty sir."

Ben only nodded as he continued to stare at a singular spot on the floor. Billy watched him evenly, waiting to see if the moment would pass.

"You gonna be sick again?" Billy asked when Ben didn't move.

Shaking his head Ben placed his elbows on his knees and pressed his forehead into the palms of his hands.

"Alright then, let's get you back to bed." Billy said softly, setting the basin down on the desk.

Ben nodded weakly at the suggestion, and began the process of lying down.

"How 'bout we take them boots off, and jacket. Might make you a bit more comfortable." Billy suggested. Ben nodded again and struggled to sit back up.

"It's alright sir, I've got it." Billy said, placing a gentle hand on the major's chest to stop him.

As Ben lay back Billy removed his boots, stacking one after the other alongside the cot. The major released his right arm from his uniform coat first, and then rolled to his side as Billy slipped off the left side. Hanging the coat on the chair he turned and pulled the covers up around the major's waist. Just as had he finished settling the blankets into place bright blue eyes flew open. Recognizing the look that followed Billy quickly reached for the basin once more, passing it off to the major just in time.

"Alright, let's get some food in you Major." Billy said with a sigh as the stomach spasms came to an end.

Ben shook his head at the idea.

"Your stomach's turning on itself, sir. That's why you keep getting sick."

The way Ben regarded him with watery eyes told Billy he was not convinced.

"Don't have to be a whole lot, maybe just a piece of bread, if you can manage." He encouraged the major.

Coming to the realization that he was desperate enough to try anything at this point, Ben relented with a slight nod of his head. Billy took the basin from his hands once more, swapping it out for the parcel he had placed on the desk upon returning from the cook's tent. He pulled back the paper and carefully ripped a small piece of bread from the loaf that was inside, handing it over to Ben who took it begrudgingly.

"Hardly seems worth it now, don't it?" Billy asked as Ben tentatively bit into the bread.

Suspecting that Billy was referring to his scrap with Bradford Ben weighed out his response carefully. While it was true that had he somehow known the fistfight would accumulate to how miserable he was feeling right now in this very moment, he more than likely would have chosen a different route, but there was also the issue that had he simply not accepted the brandy laced tea from Caleb a large portion of today's misery could have very well been avoided.

"He shouldn't have said those things about the Commander." He answered finally.

"Lots of people say things they shouldn't."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No, I suppose it don't." Billy agreed.

"I just wish Washington would see that." Ben said with a sigh.

At that Billy laughed. "Washington see's more then you think."


	5. Gunpowder and Friends

"Shite." Caleb whispered. Digging the heel of his one good leg into the soft earth he scooted around the tree, pressing his body against the solid trunk. Exposing as little of himself as possible, he peeked around the tree, and was greeted by the barrel of a pistol.

"Show me your hands." The soldier barked, steel colored eyes as hard as the expression he wore.

"Easy there," Caleb said, words coming out even and slow as he raised his hands.

"What are you doing, traveling so far from the roadway and alone?"

"Could ask ya the same question." Caleb said with a smirk, eyes twinkling. "Not planning on deserting are we?"

"Who says I'm alone?"

The sound of twigs snapping behind him followed by the metallic sound of a hammer being drawn back drew Caleb's attention to the rear. A blur of red in his peripheral vision materialized into a second soldier with a long gun.

"You two fellas planning on shooting am unarmed man?" He asked, his eyes bouncing between the two. "An injured one at that?"

"State your business, and provide your pass."

"My pass? It's in my bags."

"Which bag?"

"Uh…the right. If one of you would be kind enough to help me up I'd be happy to get it for you." Caleb replied, making a show of his injured leg as he tried to get up.

"Stay seated. My comrade will get it for you." The soldier commanded, nodding at the second soldier.

"Well it's just that…" Caleb stopped short, cut off by something whizzing past his ear.

Turning, the flash of a muzzle caught in the corner of his eye as the soldier with the rifle crumpled to the ground. Blackie reared, letting out a high-pitched whinny and tossing her head as her powerful front legs pumped the air in front of her. The moment all four hooves touched the ground once more she bolted, leaving behind cloud of dust. The haze slowly lifted, revealing two British soldiers dead at his feet. He twisted his body about, eyes wide, searching every foothills and tree line in sight.

…

Voices speaking in hushed tones seeped into his consciousness, drawing him out of sleep. Cracking his eyelids Ben found Nathaniel Sackett standing in the doorway of his tent, hands on hips as he stared pointedly at Billy.

"Yes, I understand what the General said, but I'm on the verge of a development and I need to discuss it with Major Tallmadge immediately," the graying gentleman was informing Washington's servant.

"And I'm telling you, he won't be no good to you if you don't let him sleep," came the counter argument.

Nathaniel slipped a pocket watch from an olive green vest. "He's been asleep for nearly an hour. I can assure you, he needs to hear this."

"What Major Tallmadge needs is _rest_."

Silence followed, giving him hope that the argument was through. In the brief moments of wakefulness the pounding in his head had begun to intensify, and his battered body begged for more sleep. His eyelids, growing heavier by the second, and he allowed them to slip closed.

"Incase you've forgotten there's a war going on, one that cares not about who needs rest."

Nathaniel's voice wrenched him back, and the tinge of guilt coursed through his conscience.

"And it'll keep for a few more hours." Billy replied.

He tossed back the covers, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pulling himself into a seated position.

"I see you've resorted to old habits." Mr. Sackett stated as his brows rose.

He didn't reply. Heat coursed through his body, rising in his cheeks. The warmth of the tent was suddenly suffocating. Shivering against a contrasting cold sweat cascading down his spine he squeezed his eyes shut, throat clenching around the bile rising up in it. He'd never felt so sick. Fingers wrapped around his jaw like a vice, and his eyes flew open, revealing a blurry Mr. Sackett, peering at him, his scruffy brows furrowing.

His head tilted, first right then left. Releasing his chin with a frown, Sackett's inspection moved to the base of his skull. White-hot pain raced from the back of his head to the front, filling his vision with little black specks. Shoving away the offending hands, he retreated onto the bed, panting.

"Billy, go and get the doctor." He heard Sackett say, his voice a thousand miles away.

…

Caleb's face split into a broad smile. "Kitchi!"

The native man bounded up to him with an equally broad smile. Bow and arrows were quickly discarded when Caleb's smile turned to a grimace, dry leaves crunching in protest as Kitchi dropped to his knees before him. Dark eyes roamed over bearded head, broad shoulders, muscular limbs, and torso, narrowing at the sight of blood. Olive skinned hands set to work, slipping the leather duster from his shoulders, nimble fingers wrestled the buttons of his shirt. When the last button undone the shirt was peeled away his skin. Caleb noted a sticky wet feeling on his left, the metallic odor filling the air between them. Kitchi's sharp inhale, drew his attention to the side.

"Ah, that? Wouldn't worry too much 'bout that. Just a flesh wound is all."

Kitchi pointed at the blood a frown crossing his features.

"Aye, bleeding a bit now isn't it?" Caleb agreed. "Ya ride out here?"

Kitchi replied with a shake of the head.

"On foot?"

A nod.

"We still in no man's land?"

Another nod.

"Right." Caleb said, his face scrunching up as he looked about, pondering. "Lobsters were probably out scouting. Don't have much time 'fore the rest of'em come looking for their friends."

With a groan he pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on tree for support. Taking a cautious step forward, he nearly collapsed. Kitchi reached out, grabbing ahold of him with a worried expression.

"Knee is shot my friend. Think you can ya can help me walk?"

…

"How long has he been vomiting?"

"Most o'the day, Sir."

Dr. Jackson sat beside him, squinting at the back of his head.

"Any vertigo? Dizziness?"

"Yes," he whispered, the crowded tent and fixed attention making him uneasy. In one corner stood Washington, lips forming into a thin line. Sackett was seated his desk engrossed in the surgeon's physician's manual. The stout man looked up at his confirmation of the surgeon's suspicions; worry sliding into the crevices of his face.

"Hold that light up a bit son."

Billy lifted the lantern parallel to his eyes. He winced, blue eyes slamming shut.

"Light bothering you?"

He nodded.

"Hm." The doctor murmured, writing "sensitivity to light" in his notes. He turned to Sackett and Washington. "Any incoherent speech?"

Both men shook their heads.

"What about restlessness, irritability, amnesia?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but Billy beat him to it. "No sir. Seems he really wants to sleep."

Dr. Jackson nodded deeply as he stood. "There's a large tumor at the base of his skull. This can happen sometimes after a blow to the head. Should go away on it's own, the ailments should go with it. If things start to worsen I may try a gentle evacuation."

"Evacuation?" Washington asked.

"Bleeding."

Washington nodded, stormy eyes flickering in Ben's direction. "How long?"

Dr. Jackson shrugged. "It's difficult to say, a few days maybe?" Collecting his array of contraptions and placing them in the bag, he turned to go. "I'm recommend quiet activities over the next few days, and a diluted diet, liquids mostly. Tea, coffee, watered down wine and such."

"Thank-you doctor." Washington replied.

Dr. Jackson nodded, pushing back the tent flaps. "If anything changes you know where to find me," he called over his shoulder, tent flaps snapping shut.

Washington's gaze fixed back on him. "Major, you are to remain in your tent and you are to _rest."_

He swallowed hard, nodding.

"Mr. Sackett…" Washington turned the aide still seated at his desk, his eyebrows raised.

"Hm?"

"I believe you were just leaving."  
Sackett's eyes widened his mouth dropping open, preparing to protest.

"Whatever you came to discuss with the Major you may discuss with me."

"But it will only take a moment, and…" Sackett started.

Washington cut him off. "You will discuss it with _me_ ," he repeated, emphasizing the word me.

Sackett's mouth clamped shut. Rising to his feet he quickly gathered his notes, exiting the tent in a hurry. Washington watched the obstinate man go, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Turning to Ben his gaze softened momentarily. "Get some sleep Major."

…

Caleb let out a groan, sinking to the ground in a breathless heap. Tilting his face he was met with the anxious gaze of his friend. The native glistening with sweat glowed in the light of a fading sun, chest heaving as he stared down at him. They'd covered maybe half a mile, three quarters tops.

"We can't go on like this, Kitchi," he said.

Shaking his head vigorously Kitchi reached down, trying to pull him to his feet.

"No," he said firmly. You have to get back to camp, get Ben."

Kitchi's jaw set, staring back he didn't move.

"Look. It's the only way."

Eyes as black as night roamed the forest, settling on a fallen tree several yards away. Kitchi pointed at it. Following his friend's gaze Caleb nodded. "Aye, that'll do."

Together they stumbled over to what would become a makeshift shelter. He fell to the ground, deposited with haste. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, begging them to close, and he complied. The sound of twigs snapping, and leaves crunching faded as he drifted to sleep.

…


	6. War and Youth

A vague notion that something wasn't right registers on Ben's subconscious, drawing him from sleep. Blue eyes blink open to a world of darkness. He blinks again, brows furrowing. Propping on elbows he looks about, his sleep-laden mind working in overdrive to piece together a fuzzy set of clues. It is night. He is in his tent. He is alone. His head is pounding, what was it the doctor had called it? A tumor, that's right. Tired hands rub sleep from his eyes. What time is it anyway? Reaching for his pocket watch, a single thought freezes him in place.

Caleb.

His body springs into motion. Blankets are thrown back, trousers yanked on, a shirt tucked into place. Pulling his vest over aching shoulders it feels as if eternity is passing as he wrestles with each stubborn button. His eyes come to rest on his cravat; he abandons it, grabbing ahold of his uniform coat instead. Shrugging an arm into each of the sleeves, he winces, battered body protesting against its new confinement. Last come his boots, looking around he spies them in the far corner of the tent. Hastily bending down his hands wrap around the leather as tiny black dots explode in his vision. He stumbles back; sitting the instant the back of his legs strike the mattress.

Fighting against a wave of nausea he waits for the moment to pass, knee bouncing, fists clenched. His vision fades in, fades back out, and fades in again before clearing. With trembling hands he pulls on leather riding boots and stands. Careful not to turn too fast he secures his belt around his waist, feeling a sense of comfort as pistol and sword fall into place. Grabbing his gold helmet from the desk he tucks it beneath his arm, heaves canvas flaps back. A quick visual sweep of camp and he dashes off in the direction of his childhood friend's tent.

…

A fire crackles in the hearth, dancing for two old friends. Behind them a blackened sky rumbles with threats of rain. The pair doesn't notice, lost in their discussion of the latest predicament between Bradford and Tallmadge.

"He's young," Nathaniel Sackett says, shrugging.

"Too young, I fear sometimes," Washington replies.

Peering over wire frames, the aide-de-camp grins. "Oh come now, you weren't much older when you started a war."

Washington's mind travels back to a bitter cold March, feeling the familiar prick of adrenaline even now as he recalls the bullets that had whistled past, shattering the ominous silence of an American wilderness night. The events would go on to ignite a war that would stretch on for seven years, spreading like wildfire from the banks America to the shores of Europe, Africa, and India. The year was 1754 and he had just turned twenty-two.

"Admit it George, the boy reminds you of you," Nathaniel's voice breaks his thoughts, drawing him back to present day.

"Perhaps," he says, gray eyes wistful.

Nathaniel hides a knowing smirk behind a well-placed coffee cup. "So, what are your intentions for Bradford?"

Eyes fixed on the flames, he sighs. "My intentions are to to do nothing."

Sackett's eyes widened. "Nothing?" the single word comes out in a hiss.

Washington turns. His friend studying him, intelligent eyes blazing.

"If I punish Bradford it will seem as though I am siding with Tallmadge, who was acting-"

"In your defense!" Sackett cries out, slamming down the coffee cup.

"Precisely."

Sackett's lips set into a thin line of disapproval.

"If I punish Bradford than I must punish Tallmadge too."

"No-"

"If I do not it will seem as though I only punish those who speak out against me and I fear the consequences that will have in regards to receiving complete and honest input from my staff."

"That man very nearly killed your head of intelligence!"

"I'm aware, Mr. Sackett," he advises, gritting his teeth.

"Yet you'll do nothing."

Washington sits back in his chair, jaw clenching as he stares into the fire. Nathaniel does the same.

Silence fills the room; tension electrifying the air between them.

"I will not compromise the integrity of my staff by dictating over a matter of opinion, no matter how right or how wrong that opinion may be." Washington says finally, voice small. "Don't you see? If I do, I am no better than a king."

Nathaniel sits very still, taking in Washington's words. He knows his friend is right. It appears his soft spot for the major has gotten the best of him, and he hopes the general won't hold it against him. Thinking back on the trembling body covered in scrapes and bruises, the ashen face that winced in pain with every poke and prod of the doctor, he didn't see how he could. Bradford and his posse of imbeciles had taken things far beyond a typical scrap. His greatest fear was that the treacherous man wasn't yet finished.

…

Caleb sits beneath his makeshift shelter shivering uncontrollably. The once distant storm now sits directly over top, bringing with it a severe drop in temperature. Thick clouds blot out the moon; the darkness so thick he can't very well see two inches past his bloody nose. Knowing it was only a matter of time until the rain came pouring down left him longing for a warm fire- or fiery woman. In spite of present circumstances his face breaks into a wide grin as thoughts of Caitlin fill his mind. Leaning back, he surrenders to his fate.

…

Caleb's tent is black; Ben pulls back its flaps anyway. The interior matches its outward appearance, offering no signs of return. He frowns. Collapsing on to a makeshift cot, he replays his friend's parting words. Caleb promised he would be back with news for him to deliver to Washington in the morning. Pinching his brow, his eyes squeeze shut; did that mean this days' morning or the next? Before he could reach a valid conclusion tent flaps rip open causing him to jump.

"It's about time. Where have you be-" his face visibly falls. "Kitchi?"

Without a word the native man lunges, wrapping both hands tightly around his wrist he begins pulling him to his feet.

Ben's body recoils at the sudden jarring. "Stop!" he hisses, panting against the pain.

Kitchi releases his grip and stands, shifting his weight from side to side.

Ben pulls himself to his feet, tugging vest and coat into place. "Kitchi, what's wrong?"

Brown eyes stare back at him, a silent plea.

"Caleb?"

Kitchi nods fervently.

Ben's brows draw together. "Where is he?"

Backing towards the entrance Kitchi turns, gesturing for Ben to follow.

…

"He's gone sir."

Washington flicks his eyes from the thick stack of papers he's holding to the face his servant. "Gone?"

Billy nods solemnly. "His uniform is missing, pistol and sword too."

Washington blinks, long legs unfolding beneath a borrowed writing desk, chair scrapping across wooden floorboards as he rises. Crossing the room in one fell swoop he removes his cape from its rack, exiting the room. Stepping into the night steel gray eyes survey the camp. Fires absent of men smolder outside darkened tents. Overhead a crack of lightning illuminates the night sky. Clenching his fists he descends upon the stairs crossing into a sea of tents. His black cape follows, twisting in the wind. Reaching Nathaniel Sackett's cart he brushes past shelves riddled with papers and books before bounding up set of rickety wooden steps and tosses canvas curtains back.

"Oh!" Sackett gasps, rising to his feet.

"Have you seen Major Tallmadge?"

Scrambling to right a toppled over bottle of ink, Sackett frowns. "Last I knew he was in his tent."

"He seems to have left."

Rolling his eyes, Sackett blots at an ocean of ink spilling across his page. "That man's stubborn streak is at least mile wide." Holding the paper to the light, his eyes squint, inspecting the damage. "Have you checked Lieutenant Brewster's tent?"

"And the livery. Both Brewster and Tallmadge's horses are missing."

"Oh dear," Sacket exclaims, tossing the ruined document aside. The candle flickers, casting severe shadows across the tent. He watches an array of emotions play out on Washington's face and sits back down, preparing for a long night.

***Thank you everyone reading/following my little fiction and for your ongoing patience. I fear this story may be coming to a close, and really want to do it justice! I also apologize for the strange ending; it seems my German shepherd wished to add his own input and I failed to catch it before I published. Again thank-you, for the comments, the reads, and continued encouragement (Thira13) it means so very much to me!***


	7. Just a Scratch

By the time the makeshift shelter comes into view Ben is seeing double. Darkness and heavily wooded terrain had kept them at a slow trot most of the way, but as night surrendered to day they've increased their speed. Each jarring step sends white-hot pain searing through his body. Pulling up on the reigns and dismounting, he falters, boots sinking into soft earth. The stillness in the air sends chills down his spine, and his pain is fast forgotten. Casting a worried look in Kitchi's direction he stumbles to the shelter. Sinking to his knees he scrambles to pull back the sticks and leaves, pausing at the click of a pistol hammer.

"Caleb boy," he says quietly. His hands still full of shrubbery, freeze in mid air.

Caleb's eyes open to half-mast. A slow smile spreads across his face. "Be…nny…boy."

With a ragged exhale Ben smiles back, relief flooding his features. Noting the shallow breathing and sluggish response of his normally animated friend, the smile soon fades. Crouching lower he draws closer, assessing the damage. Pulling away the rain soaked shirt clinging to Caleb's side he finds the skin beneath it ice cold. Looking to Kitchi he instructs the tracker to retrieve a blanket from his saddle packs. Turning back to the task he takes a quick inventory of Caleb's injuries, noting a side wound, which thankfully is no longer bleeding and swollen knee. He hopes despite the swelling the knee is still somewhat functional. When Kitchi returns with a blanket he wraps it tight around Caleb's shoulders.

Sighing, Caleb's eyes close as the blanket envelopes him in warmth.

"Hey, I need you to stay awake" Ben says, clasping Caleb's shoulder and giving it a gentle shake.

Caleb grunts his response, brows furrowing.

"Caleb-boy. You can sleep when we get back to camp, I promise."

Silence.

"Caleb," Ben says louder.

Caleb's face scrunches up. Opening his eyes he gives Ben a resentful look to which Ben offers a half smile in return. Caleb squints, studying Ben's face and the look of resentment softens with concern. "Jesus Ben. You look like shite."

Ben snorts. "You should talk."

Caleb smiles. "Just a scratch," he rasps.

Rolling his eyes Ben reaches out an arm. "Think you can walk if we help?"

Caleb nods, grasping his forearm. Gripping Caleb's forearm tight in return Ben leans his weight onto his heels, and manages to pull him from the shelter. Kitchi springs into action, grabbing ahold of his other arm and the two haul a grimacing Caleb to his feet. Placing one arm over Ben's shoulders and the other over Kitchi's he hobbles the short distance to the horses.

"Two horses?" he asks with a perplexed look.

"You're riding with Kitchi."

Caleb glowers. "The hell I am."

Kitchi mounts a Painted gelding that begins to stamp impatiently. Scooting towards the horse's rear he extends his hand to his wounded friend.

Caleb's frown deepens. "There's no way I'm riding with you snuggled up to my arse."

"Caleb, please. Just get on the horse." Ben pleads, pinching brow between thumb and forefinger.

Caleb turns, eyes wide. "Easy for you to…" he starts. Noting the sweat glistening on Ben's brow, the tremor in his hand, he falls silent. Squeezing Ben's shoulder he asks, "are you alright?" He swears Ben turns a shade of green.

"Lets go before we run into your new friend's friends," Ben replies, nodding in the direction of the fallen redcoats.

Mounting with Kitchi's help, Caleb groans as he falls into place. "Now, you savage you. Keep your bloody hands and your you know what to yourself," he warns. A sigh escapes him as he settles in, though he'd never admit it, at least not aloud anyway, the warmth of the blanket and Kitchi's body feels a bit like heaven after a night of freezing rain. He pulls the blanket tighter as Kitchi's arms reach around him for the reigns. Glancing over at Ben he finds him struggling to mount his steed.

…

The morning light is unkind to Washington; it reveals dark circles beneath his eyes and creased brow. Beside him a steaming cup of coffee sits untouched as he gazes out the window. Across the room Sackett too has fallen unusually silent. He sighs; drawing away from the window he crosses the short distance to his desk. Standing over it he picks up a stack of dispatches, reads a few lines and sets them down. As a man who takes great pride in self-discipline he finds the difficulty to concentrate unnerving.

Nathaniel watches Washington return to his desk for the hundredth time. "I'm sure widower Ford will be most displeased if you wear a hole in the floorboards."

Washington silences him with a stare.

Turning his eyes heavenward Nathaniel returns to his book _Syllabus of a Course of Lectures on Chemistry._ He has uncovered a fascinating article on invisible ink, and busies himself writing out a list of the compounds needed while the floorboards continue to creak.

The door clicks open and Billy enters, providing a welcome distraction for them both.

"Excuse me sir, but the doctor's been made aware of Major Tallmadge's absence, and the stable hand said you'll be the first to know when they return," he informs them.

"Thank-you," Washington says, turning back to the window.

Billy nods and the door clicks shut behind him.

…

Caleb cringes when Ben's head drops for the fifth time. He looks at Kitchi who nods; he's seen it too. Grabbing the reigns he eases the Paint alongside Ben's noble steed. Reaching over he grasps Ben's shoulder. Ben startles, eyes flying open with a gasp.

"Easy Tall-boy. It's just me," Caleb assures him.

Looking around, bewilderment settles upon Ben's face causing Caleb brows to knot together. Wrapping his fingers tight around the fabric of the shoulder of Ben's uniform, he gives him a gentle shake. He finds the confusion clouding his friend's features alarming. "Benny." He snaps his fingers. "Hey, Tall boy."

Blinking Ben frowns, recognition dawning on his face.

"Ben?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

Ben regards him with a quizzical look. "I'm fine."

"Okay-" Caleb replies slowly. Releasing his grip, he turns back to the path, trying to gauge just how far they are from camp. Kitchi shoots him a worried look, to which he mouths, " _I know."_

…

Sprinting across camp the stable hand bounds past two guards standing at post and up the front steps of the Ford Mansion. Washington and Mr. Sackett meet him in the hallway, having already spotted the two horses approaching.

"He's back," the young boy announces breathlessly.

"Yes, thank-you." Washington replies.

They reach the stable just as Kitchi helps Caleb off the back of the Paint. With Caleb's arm over his shoulder the pair turns as one towards the entrance as the door slams shut. Fixing his gaze on the wounded courier Washington's lips tighten. "What happened?"

"Bit of an ambush."

"An ambush? By whom?" Sackett inquires, stepping forward.

"Lobsters. Think they were scouting, sir." 

"How far from camp?"

Caleb shrugs to hide a grimace, "not sure exactly. Ten, maybe fifteen miles."

Nathaniel shakes his head. Morristown is completely fortified by surrounding hills. Any attempt at an attack would be futile. There had to another reason those soldiers were lurking about in the woods. That final thought sent his mind into a tailspin. Washington turns and he gives him a knowing nod.

"Seeing that you've decided you're well enough for horseback perhaps you can gather a team of Dragoons and investigate the matter Major Tallmadge," Washington suggests, turning back to the three disheveled men.

Ben responds with a slow blink.

"Major Tallmadge?"

Lowering his head Ben rubs at his forehead with both palms.

"Get him off that horse," Washington says to two soldiers lingering in a nearby stall.

"Yes sir," one of the men replies as they walk over. Grabbing the bottom of Ben's uniform coat they pull him down. He stumbles when they release him, still holding his head. Pushing off Kitchi Caleb hobbles over to his friend. "Ben," he calls gently, tapping his cheek.

Twisting away, Ben lets out a whimper.

"See to it Major Tallmadge and Lieutenant Brewster find their way to the medical tents. Immediately," Washington commands while turning on his heel and exiting the barn.

Caleb turns to Ben gaping. Consumed by the explosion in his head, Ben doesn't notice.

…


	8. Hour of Need

Standing in the doorway of a small room, Doctor Jackson takes one final look at the young major. The man is strikingly pale, and would have very well blended in against the white sheets if it weren't for the deep bruising scattered across his ribcage, and he can't help thinking how small he looks with his layers of uniform stripped off. Continuing his visual inspection, his experienced eyes linger on the patient's chest. He waits, watching for adequate rise, and frowns. Even with a dose of laudanum flowing through his veins, the soldier's chest hitches painfully with every breath. After noting his observations in the patient's chart, he exits to find Washington and Sackett waiting just outside the room. He greets them with an apprehensive smile.

"Lieutenant Brewster suffers from a mild sprain to his knee, along with a rather deep laceration to his side that required stitches. It will be important to keep it clean to avoid infection."

"And Major Tallmadge?"

Doctor Jackson shrugs. "It's hard to say. He's complaining of double vision, and to be honest he seems a bit confused. It could be the pain talking, but I won't know for certain until he wakes. For now, I've given him a mild extraction and some laudanum. He's resting comfortably."

Needing to see for himself, Sackett peers over the doctor's shoulder.

Doctor Jackson follows his gaze. "You're welcome to sit with him if you like."

Without hesitation, Sackett disappears into the room, leaving Washington and the doctor behind. Washington watches his Aide-de-camp take a seat, knowing he won't move until one of them wakes, which he hopes for the sake of the cause won't be long. Turning his attention back to Dr. Jackson he asks, "Where is Lieutenant Brewster?"

"Lieutenant Brewster is…" The doctor purses his lips. "In the far corner room I believe," he replies, pointing towards the northeast corner.

"See that the two of them are roomed together or I fear you will have a disturbance on your hands."

Doctor Jackson frowns. "It's very important the major rests, sir."

"Which is why I suggest you move Brewster at once."

…

The first thing Caleb feels upon waking is warmth. Wishing to linger in the rare comfort, he burrows deep beneath the blankets, but a throbbing knee keeps him from sleep. He shifts, trying to get more comfortable.

"I know you're awake, Lieutenant."

He sighs. Leave it to Sackett to ruin a good thing. Cracking his eyes, a hazy version of Sackett comes into view. With the back of his hands, he rubs sleep from his eyes. They blink open once more, and this time Sackett is crystal clear. Scrunching up his face, he gives the man his very best glare.

Sackett harrumphs, turning the page of his newspaper. "You'll have to do better than that I'm afraid."

"Wh-" Caleb starts, voice cracking with sleep. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't I visit a friend in their hour of need?"

Rolling his eyes, Caleb props himself up on his elbows, wincing as stitches pull tight. "You don't trust anyone enough to have friends, and this ain't my hour of need."

"Maybe it's not yours. But perhaps it's his," Sackett replies, lowering the newspaper and glancing past Caleb.

Twisting to his right, Caleb finds Ben fast asleep in the next bed over. The sheets are pulled down, revealing angry bruising across his torso; his breaths are shallow. Horrified, Caleb sucks his lips in, clenching his jaw as he shakes his head. "How long's he been like that?"

Rising to his feet, Sackett folds the newspaper shut. "Two days. The doctor thinks it best that he remain sedated."

"How so?" Caleb asks, turning back to Sackett who is pulling back the sheet that serves as their bedroom door. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Back to work, lieutenant. I trust the major is good hands now."

Caleb blinks, and turns back to Ben. The sight of his friend's battered body pains him.

…

Caleb recuperates rather quickly, though his knee still aches if he bends it just right. He's given clearance to return to his duties, but still finds himself regularly summoned to the medical tent.

Mistrusting Ben's capabilities to follow orders, Doctor Jackson continues on with his laudanum regiment, keeping the doses high in an effort to keep his patient immobilized. But depending on the hour, Ben's either asleep or completely out of his mind. When the latter is true, Caleb seems to be the only one able to calm him.

After a particularly long night of doing battle with Ben and his delusions, Caleb flops face down on top of his bed, without bothering to undress. Consumed with exhaustion, he falls into a dreamless sleep, and morning comes too quickly. When he awakes, the brightness of his tent tells him it's late.

With a groan, he pulls himself into a seated position at the edge of the bed. Clasping his hands together, he stretches lanky arms overhead with a yawn. A quick glance in a dirty mirror reveals hair sticking out in every direction, and dark circles beneath his eyes. Combing tired fingers through his beard and scalp, he manages to halfway tame the unruly locks.

Sunrays kiss his face the moment he exits his tent, brightening his mood, and a warm breeze beckons him to the sea. Humming some nameless tune, he makes his way down the well-worn path leading to the shoreline; his face breaking into a wide smile when a small grove of pine trees comes into view.

Approaching the group of trees, he reaches out to gently pull back the branches and brush camouflaging his boat. He's midway through rubbing an affectionate hand across the bow when his name rings out from behind. Turning, he finds a man running full speed toward him. Recognizing him from the hospital tent, Caleb's body tenses. He anxiously waits for the man to approach.

Folding over upon reaching him, the man places his hands on his knees. "The major's having another episode," the man gasps. "It has to be his worst one yet."

Without a word, Caleb takes off at a dead sprint. He doesn't stop until he reaches the hospital tent. Pushing his way though patients and nurses, he bursts into Ben's room, eyes widening at the site before him. On the bed, Ben thrashes, eyes wild as he rages against some invisible enemy. To Ben's right is Washington, and to his left, Sackett. They each hold an arm while Billy struggles to grasp his legs.

Whipping his head back, Ben makes a terrible sound Caleb's never heard before. It's haunting, and it cuts him to the core.

"Let him go," shouts Caleb.

The men turn to face him, while Ben writhes beneath them. Stepping forward, he holds up his hands. "Let him go," he repeats.

Sackett and Billy each turn to Washington who nods, and they set the combative major free.

With a strangled moan, Ben scurries up the bed, drawing his knees to his chest when he reaches the headboard. His face goes blank as his eyes bounce between them. Doctor Jackson enters and rushes towards him with a bottle of laudanum in hand. Flinching, Ben's right arm locks back, his hand balling into a fist.

"No!" Caleb exclaims, stepping between the doctor and Ben. "He doesn't need that."

Doctor Jackson gives him a leveling stare as he steps around him.

Caleb places halting hands upon the doctor's chest. "One more step towards him with that shite and I'll break every bone in your hand, " he warns.

"Lieutenant, please. I don't believe you have the proper qualifications to be making decisions with regards to my patients."

Caleb smiles. "How 'bout I break both your hands, hm?"

The two square off, eyeing each other dangerously until a hand rests on Caleb's shoulder. He jumps. Turning from the doctor, he's met with Washington's gaze.

"Lieutenant, please."

Caleb stares back before sighing. Giving a resigned nod, he surrenders, and Washington removes his hand. Caleb steps towards the bed, smiling when he sees Ben's face soften.

"Hey, Tallboy."

Ben's body relaxes and he slumps against the pillows. He looks from one concerned face to another, as though seeing them for the very first time. Their alarm doesn't seem to register with him.

"Need ya to take some medicine Benny, think ya can do that?"

Ben's eyes lock on Caleb, and Caleb's chest tightens at the trust reflecting in them.

"It'll help ya sleep," he says softly, casting his eyes downward.

Ben nods, and Caleb's heart breaks, knowing full well what the _medicine_ will do to him.

Seeing his window of opportunity, Doctor Jackson steps forward. Removing a dropper and spoon from his pocket, he carefully measures out a healthy dose of amber liquid from the bottle of laudanum before lifting the spoon to Ben's lips. As Ben's eyelids begin to droop, the rest of the men shuffle out of the room, leaving Caleb to keep watch.

Caleb cancels his smuggling escapade; it's the least he can do after convincing Ben to take that shite. At least for his sake, a pretty gal comes to check on Ben from time to time. She's a little blonde thing with pouty lips that remind him oddly enough of his favorite lady of the night, Genevieve. Though her vocabulary isn't nearly as impressive.

Propping his feet up on the bed, he makes a mental note to get her name. Leaning back in the chair, he settles in. It isn't long before his chin drops to his chest, and his eyes drift closed. When he wakes the room is somber, and a shade darker than before.

"Caleb?" A soft whisper rises from the bed.

Caleb grins. "Ey' Tall-boy. How ya feeling?"

Ben moans, eyes scanning.

Caleb leaps to his feet. "Hold on," he pleads.

Ben moans again as his stomach starts flip-flopping. A basin gets shoved beneath his chin as he starts to gag. His stomach empties itself, one miserable wave after another. Just when he thinks it's over, he doubles over again. When the dry heaves finally taper, he slouches back, gasping. Broken ribs throb; his head pounds, and his body hurts in places he never knew existed.

"So, you're feeling pretty good I take it?" Caleb asks, his voice deadpan.

Between huffs of pain, Ben breaks into a smile and starts to laugh. Soon Caleb is laughing with him.

…

Turning on a heel, Bradford crosses General Lee's tent in three long strides, spins, and crosses it again. Candles on the desk flicker each time he passes, casting wide shadows across the pages of Lee's book. Lee looks up with a scowl.

"Will you stop?"

Bradford turns, his lips twist into sneer. "How you can just sit there reading is beyond me."

Lee's eyes roll heavenward. He turns back to his book.

Bradford's face darkens. Splaying his arms wide, he rests his palms on the desk, leaning forward until he is inches from Lee's face. "I'm telling you, Tallmadge knows something."

Setting the book aside, Lee stares back pointedly. "Yes, and need I remind you, we wouldn't be in this situation if you had finished the job in the first place."

Bradford gapes. "I would have had that bastard if the courier had not interrupted."

"Well he did, and here we sit-"

"Doing nothing!" Bradford shouts. "Don't you see? Tallmadge could recover any day now and then we'll be right back where we started. We need to act!"

"Relax, Colonel. The major isn't going to recover."

Bradford's brows knit together as he eases himself into a nearby chair.

"In case you haven't noticed, the major is getting worse, not better."

Bradford nods slowly. "I've noticed."

"Well, that's because Doctor Jackson has been increasing the doses of laudanum all week, making it seem as though the Major is getting worse," Lee explains. "So that tonight, when he delivers a fatal dose, it will seem as if Major Tallmadge simply succumbed to his injuries. No suspicions raised."

Bradford's mouth drops open. "I thought the plan was to break his jaw, not kill him."

Lee shrugs. "Plans change. I doubt Tallmadge knows much of anything, but Washington seems to think he does, and therefore keeps him close. He's becoming too much of a risk. Trust me, it's better this way,"

"Easy for you to say, you won't be the one hanging for murder when he _succumbs_ to his injuries."

"Oh don't be ridiculous, William," Lee chides. "You merely roughed him up a bit, it's the major who further aggravated his injuries by riding off like that. Against Washington's orders I might add."

Bradford leans back. A slow smile creeps across his face. "Well General, it appears you've thought of everything."


	9. Final Dose

Collapsing with a groan, Caleb takes a seat at the fire outside Sackett's cart. By the glow of the flames, Sackett can see his exhaustion runs deep. He holds out a cup of coffee, which Caleb accepts.

"I may have added a spot of whiskey or two."

Caleb offers a weary smile and drains the mug. Sackett refills it with straight whisky.

"How is he?"

Caleb sighs. "Sleeping...finally."

"Yes, I assumed."

Caleb head cocks to the side.

"Or else you wouldn't be here."

"True," Caleb replies, before falling silent. After taking a sip from his mug he sets it aside. Picking up a nearby stick, he pokes absently at the fire. "Hate seeing him like this," he says after awhile.

"Doctor Jackson did say it could take a few weeks for him to return to normal."

"Normal?" Caleb huffs. "Hell, I'd be happy with halfway normal at this point."

Sackett frowns, not knowing what to say. It had been a trying week for everyone, including the major. If he wasn't awake in some drug-induced nightmare, he was lethargic, apathetic even, often having to be reminded just to eat and drink. Doctor Jackson diligently continued on with his evacuations, hoping they would help, but today even he seemed at a loss. _Just give him time,_ was all he kept saying. _Time,_ indeed _._ A figure approaches, interrupting his thoughts.

"I'm uh, looking for Lieutenant Brewster, sir."

"Well, you've found him."

"It's Major Tallmadge, sir," the man replies, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Caleb's eyes drift up from the fire. "What about him?"

"He's sick as a dog sir, and all out of sorts…again."

Caleb jumps to his feet, a blue streak filling the night air as he makes his way to the medical tents.

…

Ben's throat is on fire as his stomach twists, turning into knots. Hands without faces hold him captive; disembodied voices float down from above. He tries to tell them to let him go, that he's going to be sick, but his lips won't formulate the words. Swallowing hard, he tosses his head back, nausea crashing through him like a tidal wave as everything fades to black.

A well-placed backhand brings him back and Ben's eyelids crack open. He's dragged into a seated position, and the room begins to spin. The doctor fades into view, words spilling from his mouth. At least Ben thinks they're words, he can't really say for certain, they float away before he can grasp them.

Rough hands clasp his chin, thrusting his jaw open and a bitter liquid fills his mouth. He vomits.

"Damn it," Doctor Jackson exclaims, jumping back as Ben's stomach contents splatter across the sheets.

The major slumps forward, blinking at the puddle of bile and laudanum covering his lap.

Doctor Jackson dips a dropper back into the bottle of laudanum. Squeezing the bulb, he fills the glass tube with more amber liquid. Turning back to his patient, he raises Ben's head once more. The major's skin is cool and clammy as he presses the dropper against bluish lips.

Ben's eyes slide open; he claws weakly at the doctor's wrists. "No," he moans.

"Come on, Major. Just one more dose."

"What the hell?" A voice booms from behind.

Doctor Jackson jumps, dropping the dropper. Twisting, he finds Lieutenant Brewster standing in the doorway, along with Washington and Sackett.

"I..." He clears his throat. "Major Tallmadge was confused and highly combative. I was trying to subdue him."

Ben bends over, wrapping his arms around his stomach. Caleb hurries to his side. Placing a hand on Ben's shoulder, he bends low as Ben peers at him with cloudy eyes.

"He looks pretty subdue to me," Caleb retorts, straightening.

Doctor Jackson stares at Caleb, his jaw tightening. "Listen here, Lieutenant-"

"No, you listen," interrupts Caleb. "Your medicine and blood letting shite, it ain't working."

"And what qualifies you to make such an assessment?"

"It don't take some fancy degree to see he ain't getting any better. I've seen plenty of men take a few wallops to the head. Never took this long for'em to recover," Caleb says, pushing the doctor back.

Doctor Jackson stumbles. "I see. Well that hardly-"

Clearing his throat, Washington steps forward. "I must admit, I agree with Lieutenant Brewster's assessment."

"As do I," adds Sackett.

Turning to Washington Doctor Jackson pleads. "Sir, I must protest!"

"You may note your disagreement in your reports, doctor," Washington advises him. He turns to Billy, who stands just outside the room. "See that a room is made up at headquarters for Major Tallmadge and Lieutenant Brewster."

Nodding, Billy departs for the widower's mansion.

…

Caleb falters beneath the weight of his friend. The journey to the Ford mansion started out with Ben relatively conscious, but he fades fast as they cross the front lawn. Pausing, Caleb takes a ragged breath.

"Hey, Ben, think ya can help me out a bit?"

Ben peers at him from beneath hooded eyelids. He nods slowly.

"Good, okay. Here we go. Ready?"

Ben nods again, slower this time. They take a step forward, stumble. Taking a second step, they stumble again.

"Oh for heaven sakes," Mr. Sackett exclaims. "You there," he says, pointing at a nearby private. "Quickly, go and grab a stretcher."

"No, I've got him," Caleb replies through gritted teeth, and continues on.

By the time they reach the steps, Caleb's knee is on fire; beads of sweat cling to his brow.

"Alright Benny-boy, just a few more steps. Think ya can make it?"

Ben's head rolls to the side, it falls heavy on Caleb's shoulder.

"Right, well. One step at a time 'ey?" Tightening his grip around Ben's waist, Caleb half carries, half drags him up the first step. They stumble and nearly fall on the second.

Washington moves in. He tosses Ben's free arm over his shoulders and together they mount the last six steps. When they reach the landing, the front door cracks open, bathing them with light.

Mrs. Washington appears in the doorway. "Oh dear," she exclaims, opening the door wide for them to pass. "Right this way," she says, leading them down a darkened hallway. Stopping at the last door on the left she eases the door open for them.

The room is quaint and sparsely decorated. It reminds Caleb of one he and his three cousins shared growing up. It holds a small dresser and two twin beds, with their sheets turned down. In the corner sits an elm wood chair. A welcoming fire burns in the hearth.

Caleb and Washington set Ben on the nearest bed. He tips dangerously forward.

"Easy there, Ben," Caleb says, catching him. Kneeling down with a groan, Caleb takes hold of Ben's chin. Ben's eyes slide open, he blinks, and they drift closed again. Caleb frowns. "Jesus, he's really out of it."

Placing both hands on Ben's shoulders, Caleb gives him a gentle shake. "Hey, Benny, hey…"

Ben's eyes crack open. He makes a gurgling noise, spewing vomit on them both.

Caleb yelps, instinctively jumping back.

Rushing to Ben's side, Washington and Sackett catch him as he folds over.

Mrs. Washington enters the room, fresh towels and a wash bin in hand. Setting the items down, she eyes the mess dripping down Caleb's shirt. "Looks like the Major isn't the only one who'll be needing these," she says. Crossing the room, she opens one of the dresser drawers. Removing a shirt and pair of pants she hands them to Caleb. "They were Mrs. Ford's son's," she explains. "Should fit you fine."

Caleb takes them, nodding his thanks.

Mrs. Washington turns her attention to Ben. Crouching before him she touches the back of her hand to his brow.

Ben regards her in silence, his eyelids at half-mast.

"Uh… Mrs. Washington. Careful there, he might not be finished yet," Caleb warns.

"Nonsense." She offers Ben a soft smile. "Bet your stomach feels much better after all that."

Swallowing, Ben nods weakly.

"Good." Mrs. Washington straightens. Turning to Caleb, she places her hands on her hips. "Well go on and get yourself changed, Lieutenant. I can take it from here."

…

"What do you mean you weren't able to give Major Tallmadge the final dose?" Lee demands.

"It was Lieutenant Brewster, Sir. He walked in just as I was administering it," Doctor Jackson exclaims. "What was I supposed to do? He had Washington and Sackett with him."

Lee's lips press into a thin line. "And where is the Major now?"

"At the widower's mansion."

Slamming his palm on the desk, Bradford rises to his feet. "That bastard courier!"

"Calm yourself," Lee warns, shooting a glare in Bradford's direction. He turns back to Doctor Jackson. "You do realize I cannot pay you after this mishap."

"I…I might still be able to get to him," the doctor stammers. "I could stop by to check on him, and-"

"No, that could raise suspicions," Lee interrupts. His face scrunches as he drums thick fingers on his desktop. "You said a withdrawal could make him sick?"

Doctor Jackson nods fervently. "If he doesn't get laudanum soon, he'll be very sick."

"And how long will this sickness last?"

"A few days, maybe a week."

Lee casts his eyes in Bradford's direction. "We will just have to make the most of Major Tallmadge's absence."

Bradford flashes a smile. "I suppose we will."

…

A barefoot Caleb pads out of the washroom, rubbing a towel through freshly washed hair as he makes his way down the hall. Remembering the presence of a woman, he takes a moment to secure a few more buttons on his shirt before entering the guest room.

Mrs. Washington sits in the elm chair, which she's moved to the side of Ben's bed. She looks up from her stitching as Caleb enters.

Glancing down, Caleb finds Ben already fast asleep. His skin is damp, having just been washed, and he's clothed in a fresh nightshirt. Caleb sighs, running a tired hand down his face before looking up to find Mrs. Washington watching him.

"You look as if you're about to fall over, Lieutenant," she remarks.

Caleb nods, not having the energy to deny it.

"Why don't you get some sleep? I can keep watch over your friend."

"You don't have to do that, Mrs. Washington," he protests. "You've done enough already."

"I've had a few sleepless nights in my day, believe me, one more won't hurt," she replies. "Besides, morning will come soon enough. He's going to need you, so you'll want to be well rested."

Caleb offers her a grateful smile. "Call me Caleb, or Brewster, ma'am."

Mrs. Washington smiles. She turns back to her stitching. "Alright then, off to bed with you Caleb."

Caleb doesn't argue. Turning to his bed, he crawls beneath the covers. The sheets are warm and enticing. Unable to ward off the exhaustion any longer, he rolls onto his stomach, drawing his arms up beneath his head. His borrowed clothes smell like cedar and it's the last thing he remembers before drifting off to sleep.


	10. Numbers

The closer Ben edges toward consciousness the more appealing death becomes. It feels as though someone has thrust an axe into his skull and left it there. The throbbing starts in his head and works downward to his toes, until every muscle is pulsating. His throat burns and his tongue feels thick. It sticks to the roof of his mouth. He longs for water, but the thought of moving sickens him. A voice reverberates in his ears. He scrunches his brows together _._

"Come on, Benny," the voice pleads. "I know you're awake."

 _Caleb. The voice belongs to Caleb._ Ben tries forcing his eyes open but his lids are heavy, and crusted shut. He tries again, somehow managing to crack them into slits. Light floods his vision, turning the pounding in his head into a searing pain. Slamming his eyelids shut, he pants against the explosion in his brain _._ Bile rises up, and his throat closes around it. He swallows again and again.

Knowing what's coming next, Caleb forces his forearm under Ben's shoulders, thrusting him into a seated position. Holding Ben in place with one hand, he reaches for the wash bin with the other. Ben's arms snake around it as Caleb places it in his lap.

Folding over, Ben begins to retch, and Caleb's own stomach clenches sympathetically. He rubs tiny circles on Ben's back until the heaving subsides. When Ben collapses against the pillows, Caleb squeezes his shoulder before stepping to the window. Grabbing hold of the curtains, he draws them tight. Turning back, he finds Ben watching him through narrowed slits.

"Where?" Ben croaks.

It's the first lucid thing he's heard from Ben all week, and Caleb takes a moment to look him over before answering. He has to admit, Ben looks a bit like death warmed over, which is a marked improvement from the night before. "Welcome to the Ford mansion, Benny," he says with a grin.

"Wh..at..." Ben's voice cracks. He runs a thick tongue over cracked lips and tries again with a different question. "Why?"

Caleb's face falls. "You don't remember?"

Raising the heels of his hands to his eyes, Ben presses at the dull ache behind them. Gingerly, he shakes his head.

Caleb winces. "We can talk about that later. How about we get some liquid in ya first," he says, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. When Ben doesn't answer, he clasps a hand around Ben's, and gently pulls them down and away from his face.

Ben eyes the glass of water in Caleb's hand, trying to decide if he wants to drink, sleep, or curl up and die. He takes a tentative sip. The water is cool, and feels like heaven passing through his lips. He drinks the rest of the glass greedily. It isn't long before the liquid loses all of its comforting properties, and his stomach churns, angry at the sudden invasion.

"No," Ben moans, twisting his body towards the wash bin.

Caleb beats him to it; bringing it to Ben's chin as water mixed with bile bubbles up in his throat and passes through his lips. Thankfully the episode is blessedly shorter than the last. Sitting back with a groan, Ben raises watery eyes in Caleb's direction, his face-hardening into a murderous glare.

Caleb's mouth drops open. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I said get _some_ liquid in you.. Not, here Benny, chug this whole glass."

Ben's face softens, knowing Caleb is right. Sinking deeper into the pillows, he sighs, body spent after ridding itself of the offending liquid. His eyelids grow heavy. He's too tired to fight them. Blankets being pulled to his chin is the last thing he remembers as he drifts back to sleep.

The rest of the day passes by miserably as Ben battles to hold down water and bites of food, losing more times than he can count. Between bouts of nausea and sickness, his addled mind works to piece together the events following Caleb's rescue, unaware of how much time has passed. The gaping holes in his memory disturb him, but he's too sick to ask Caleb to fill them.

…

The following morning the sun slips through the tree line to the east. Sitting on the steps of headquarters, Caleb watches the light spread across the horizon, chasing away the last of the stars and darkness with its brilliance. Dewdrops reflect the sun's rays, turning the front yard into a bed of diamonds. He breathes in deeply, enjoying the freshness of morning, until a familiar figure draws him to his feet.

"Ah, good morning, Lieutenant," Sackett greets him breathlessly.

Caleb smiles. "And a fine morning at that."

"The Major is doing well I take?"

"Better than yesterday, even slept the whole night through."

"Good," Sackett says with a smile. "I don't suppose he would be up for some company?"

Caleb shrugs. "I don't see why not. He's awake, or at least he was a few minutes ago."

"Well then, shall we?"

"We shall," Caleb replies, mounting the steps.

Ben's voice greets them as they enter the foyer.

"Sir, please. I'm well enough to read over the reports."

Peeking his head around the corner, Caleb finds Ben standing before Washington, well, halfway standing. His friend leans heavily against the wall, as though he finds the act of remaining upright exhausting. Despite his ailments, Ben's jaw sets with determination and Caleb tries not to laugh. Leave it to Ben to drag himself out of bed and demand to work while looking like a corpse.

Washington's face is a mixture of frustration and concern, and he appears torn. Finally, he sighs. "Very well. You may look over these reports," he says, handing Ben a stack of papers.

"Thank-you, sir," Ben whispers, taking the reports.

"And you shall remain in bed while you do so," Washington adds pointedly.

Ben mouth drops open. "But, sir…"

Washington's gaze hardens. Dropping his head in defeat, Ben nods, agreeing to Washington's terms.

Stepping around Caleb, Sackett clears his throat as he enters the study.

"If I may interrupt, your Excellency, I have a pressing matter to discuss with the Major."

Turning to face Sackett, Ben misses the leveling stare Washington casts on his Aide-de-camp. Sackett is looking down, examining the contents of the leather binder he's brought with him, and appears to be ignoring the General.

Washington shakes his head. "How important is it?"

"I wouldn't ask if it weren't," Sackett advises, raising his eyes.

"Fine. Major Tallmadge, you will see Mr. Sackett in your room."

"Thank-you sir," Sackett replies. Shoving the binder beneath his arm he smiles at Ben and Caleb before ushering them down the hallway.

Ben sways and Caleb reaches out to steady him. He shoots Sackett a look and Sackett nods, agreeing to keep the discussion short.

…

 **Later that afternoon Caleb is lying on his bed dozing in a stream of mid afternoon light. His unconscious mind takes him far from camp, back to a time before the war. Traveling down a wooded path he knows like the back of his hand, he arrives at his whaleboat, and is soon racing across the sound. Ben and Abe are with him; rays of sun and sprays of ocean kiss their faces. Abe says something that he can't make out over the wind and crashing waves. He's about to tell his childhood friend to speak up when a sniffle cuts through the dream, and everything fades to black. Cracking his eyes open he looks about the room blearily and finds Ben propped up in bed, papers and maps strewn across his lap.**

"You're supposed to resting."

"There's something wrong with these reports. The numbers, they don't add up," Ben replies hoarsely before swiping at his nose with a handkerchief.

"Jesus Ben, don't tell me you're getting sick."

"What? " Ben sniffles again. "I'm fine."

Tossing his legs over the side of his bed, Caleb pulls his body to the edge. Leaning over, he places the back of his hand to Ben's brow, finding it warm to the touch. "Ben, you gotta slow down. Ya only just got your wits back."

"I'm fine."

Caleb stares at Ben. His friend's cheeks are flush, and his blue eyes are rimmed red and shimmery. "Funny, you don't look fine."

Ben doesn't respond.

Rolling his eyes, Caleb stands. "Alright, time for a break," he says, snatching at the papers in Ben's lap.

Ben's mouth falls open, but his shock quickly gives way to frustration. "Stop," he commands, pressing both hands down on documents in his lap.

Caleb looks Ben dead in the eyes, silently challenging him as his inches his hand back and eases the papers out from under Ben's hands.

Ben presses down harder. "Stop! This isn't a game Caleb, it's important."

Caleb rips the papers away from Ben. "So is your health." He glares at him with more anger than he means to. "I didn't spend a whole week acting like a bloody nursemaid just to have you go and kill yourself the second you start feeling better."

Ben's expression hardens. "I'm trying to do my job. Now give me back the reports."

Caleb stares back evenly as he continues to hold the reports just out of reach.

"Caleb please," Ben pleads. "There's something wrong with the numbers. I have to figure it out."

"How do you know Ben. Hmm? You've been out of it for over a week, numbers can change, ever think of that?"

Ben's eyes narrow and his jaw sets, and Caleb knows from experience his friend isn't going to let the matter go. Sighing he tosses the papers at Ben's feet. "Fine, have it your way." Turning on his heel, Caleb exits the room, slamming the door behind him.

…

Stalking across the front lawn of the Ford Mansion, Bradford heads in the direction of the officer's tent. It'd been two days since they'd given their reports to Washington, and still no word. Thrusting back the flaps of Lee's tent he enters without knocking. "Did you get the General the new reports?" he asks, before Lee can chastise him for his abruptness.

Lee is hunched over his desk, drafting a report. Startled by the intrusion his hand and ink pen remain frozen in midair. "If by _new,_ you mean false reports than yes, I did," he replies as he lowers his hand.

"Surely he would have called a meeting by now."

"You know the General, he pours over every detail before making a decision."

"What if he's discovered the numbers are wrong?"

"He hasn't and he won't," Lee replies, in a tone that says the conversation is over. To further his point, he waves Bradford off with a flippant hand while turning his attention back to his report.

Folding his arms across his chest Bradford glowers at Lee. "I hope you're right," he growls.

...

As the sun begins to set, General Washington enters the back room of the Ford Mansion, currently serving as Major Tallmadge's quarters. He is greeted by pair of unfocused eyes. Above them, beads of sweat cling to a fevered brow, and the cheeks below are flushed. His body covered in a sheen of sweat, the Major appears to glow in the candlelight. Alarmed, Washington crosses over to the bed and rests the back of his hand on younger man's forehead. The boy seems not to notice.

"He's burning up," a voice calls out from behind.

Glancing over his shoulder he finds Sackett standing in the doorway with fresh cloths and a water pitcher. "Infection?"

Sackett shakes his head as he moves to stand alongside the General. "No sign of it."

"Perhaps he has fallen ill?"

"Perhaps."

Washington doesn't miss the pensive look that crosses the Aide de Camp's face as he places the cloths in a basin and begins pouring the pitcher of water over them. He steps forward, placing a hand on Sackett's shoulder. "What is it?"

Sackett's brows knit together. "I'm not a doctor, but…"

"You've seen this illness before?" Washington asks, removing his hand.

"Yes," Sackett whispers, his expression growing dark. "My brother John was thrown from a horse when he was a younger man. His arm was shattered in the fall, and the doctor who tended to him was a drunkard. He tried to set bones that needed surgery and the arm never did heal quite right. It caused him a great deal of pain. He was given laudanum of course. But, as the pain began to decrease his use of laudanum began to increase at an alarming rate. We pleaded for him to stop taking it all together, and when he finally did, he became very very sick."

"As Major Tallmadge is now?"

Sackett nods. "The doctor who treated John's sickness told us he'd seen this before in patients who use laudanum in excess."

Washington lips form a thin line. He releases a long exhale through his nose. "You feel the Major has been given too much laudanum?"

"He was certainly heavily medicated, and now he is presenting symptoms identical to those of my brother."

"And your brother, did he recover?

"Yes," Sackett replies. "But if my suspicions are correct, the Major is going to get worse before he gets better."

A low moan wafts up from the bed, as if to confirm Sackett's theory. Washington looks down as Tallmadge begins tossing his head from side to side. He shudders at the pain etched in the Major's pale features. "What do we do?"

Sackett dips his hands into the basin. "Right now, we have to control the fever." He pulls out a cloth and wrings it out before placing it across Ben's forehead. Repeating the process, he places one rag after another across Ben's chest, wrists, and ankles.

Washington watches Ben shift away from the cloths with a weak moan of protest. Reaching deep into the basin, he pulls out the remaining rag and wrings it out. With a gentle hand, he wipes it across the Major's much too warm neck, praying somehow the simple act will offer some relief.

Billy appears in the doorway with a fresh pitcher of water and Washington feels his own fear rise up inside him when his servant regards the major with a worried look before setting the porcelain down.

"Billy, would you advised Doctor Jackson that I wish to see him first thing in the morning?"

"Yes, sir."


	11. LifeGuards

As evening turns to night, the western sky fades into ribbons of blue and black. In the backroom of the Ford Mansion, Ben misses the transition. Heaving heavy blankets aside for what has to be the hundredth time, he sighs as cool air greets his sweat covered skin.

His relief is short lived. Like an old friend, the aches return, settling deep into his bones. Drops of sweat turn ice cold and he starts to tremble as he scrambles to pull the faded quilt back into place. He finds little comfort in its promise of warmth as he shivers beneath the faded patches.

He should have listened to Caleb.

Caleb.

Ben forces his eyes open, and turns to peer at the bed across from his. The covers still hold the imprint of his best friend. Damnit. He needed to find Caleb, offer him a proper apology.

Struggling to push aside the blankets again, it feels an eternity before he manages to untangle himself from the sheets. As he pushes himself upright, his breathing is heavy and sweat clings to his brow. Since when did getting out of bed require so much energy?

In the hearth, a dying fire clings to life; the reddish glow of it's embers offers little by way of light. He frowns. _What time was it anyway?_

"Major Tallmadge?" a voice whispers.

Cocking his head to the side, Ben strains to listen.

"Major?"

Ben peers into the darkened corners of the room, ignoring the way the floor starts to tilt. Chair legs scrape against the floorboards, and he winces. The torturous noise is followed by heavy footsteps crossing the room. Their staccato gait tells him it's a soldier. Every footfall reverberates, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the pounding in his head intensifies.

The footsteps mercifully stop and a hand brushes against his scalp. He flinches despite the gentleness of the touch. The hand retracts. Cracking his eyes open, Ben finds a blurry figure standing before him. Before he can make out the form, a cool cloth presses against his forehead, obscuring his vision. Skin pricking with goosebumps, Ben begins to tremble.

As Ben reaches for the cloth, his hand collides with a wrist instead. He wraps his fingers around it and pulls it away. He blinks up at the blurry form standing over him, watching it fade in and out before it materializes into Washington.

Heat rises in Ben's cheeks, and he drops Washington's wrist as if it were scorching hot.

"Sir?" he croaks out, sounding weaker than he cares to admit.

Something resembling worry creeps across the man's usual mask of indifference. "Major."

"Wha.."

Washington hands him a tin cup; its contents smelling like ale. As Ben sips the bitter liquid, he tries to gather his thoughts.

"What time is it?"

Washington pulls a small gold timepiece from his vest pocket. "Late."

Ben frowns. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Several hours," Washington replies, setting the cloth in the basin.

Ben shakes his head, he must've slept the entire afternoon. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he inches towards the edge when a sharp pain crosses his ribs. With one hand clutching his side, he reaches for the stack of reports with his other when a firm hand clasps him on the shoulder.

"Major, you need to rest."

"Sir...I looked over those reports you gave me, and there's a discrepancy in the numbers."

Washington's lips press into a thin line. "And we can discuss them when you're well."

Ben's brows knit together. "When I'm well?

Washington doesn't answer. Instead he takes a seat on the adjacent bed. "Do you recall your stay at the medical tent Major?"

Ben sifts through his memory of recent events. He recalls with great clarity the fight with Bradford, the broken ribs, and sickness that followed. He remembers finding Caleb in the woods, the awful ride back to camp, and being drug off to the medical tent. But the actual medical tent itself...It's all a blur. He shakes his head.

"Are you aware you were given laudanum?"

Ben blinks. Blurry images of Doctor Jackson, a bitter taste in his mouth, and Caleb's relentless presence are the only things he remembers for certain. "It's possible...but, I don't remember sir."

Washington sighs and presses his hands against his thighs. "Rest Major, we will talk more in the morning."

Ben frowns. Washington's questions leave him with questions of his own. Did something happen during his time at the medical tent? Had he missed something? Nothing was making any sense.

Washington's hand presses against his chest and he's too weak to fight it. Blankets are pulled around his chin and a cool cloth on his forehead scatters his fevered thoughts. His eyelids grow heavy and he allows them to close. He's asleep before the bedroom door clicks shut.

…

Washington watches the Major drift off to sleep before he closes the door. He turns and heads for the study where he finds Mr. Sackett bent over his secretary desk. Numerous books and notes cover the desktop, and a small army of wadded paper litter the ground. The Aide-de-camp looks up as he enters the room. "How is he?"

Washington drops into the chair behind his own desk with a heavy sigh. "Feverish...weak."

Sackett purses his lips before turning back to his books. Washington raises an eyebrow, surprised by the man's seeming lack of concern. "What are you working on?"

"Invisible ink."

Of course, it's the man's latest obsession. After receiving Agent 722's report from New York advising the original numbers were destroyed and his cover nearly blown, Sackett had been consumed with finding a way to conceal the intelligence reports.

Staring at the fire, Washington replays his conversation with Major Tallmadge over in his mind. While the fever and weakness were certainly alarming, it was the Major's lack of memory he found most disturbing. An entire week unaccounted for.

"He doesn't remember anything."

"Mm, I suspect he doesn't," Sackett murmurs, eyes still fixed on his books.

All attempts at carrying on a conversation with his Aide de camp failing, Washington turns towards the window. Night presses thick against the panes of glass, reminding him the hour is late. From beneath heavy eyelids, he glances at the clock on the mantel and it's hands inform him he can still get a few hours of sleep.

Washington's muscles protest as he stretches his tired limbs. As he pulls himself to his feet, he finds himself clinging to the hope that morning will bring more answers than questions.

"Off to bed?"

Washington looks over to find Sackett watching him. He nods. "I'll wake Billy to watch over Major Tallmadge."

"Nonsense, I'll keep an eye on him. I still have a few more chapters to look over anyway."

"Very well. Goodnight Mr. Sackett."

…

The throbbing at the base of Ben's skull draws him from sleep. The pain seems to radiate throughout his body, even his flesh pulses. He lies still, blinking in the dark, aware of the damp clothing and sheets clinging to his skin. His aching limbs tremble as he pushes the blankets aside, choking back a sob when his efforts go unrewarded. The room is stifling. He has to get out of here.

He shuffles down the hallway, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Each step increases the pounding in head. By the time he reaches the foyer the pain is almost unbearable. Beads of sweat cascade down his forehead and burn his eyes as he leans heavily against the front door. Summoning the last of his strength he grips the handle and forces the massive door open.

On the front stoop, LifeGuards snap to attention. "Sir!"

He ignores them, breathing in deep as he drinks in the fresh air. The coolness of night tickles the back of his throat before flooding his expanding lungs. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. For a moment he forgets the heat radiating beneath his clothing. For a moment, he feels human.

Before his lungs cycle another breath,, the moment passes and his body rebels against the cool air. Chills wrack through him and he shivers. Before he can process the sudden turn of events, his stomach clenches and he folds in half.

As his vision grows hazy, the world turns gray, and a startled "Major" rings in his ears.

...

LifeGuard Hickey takes ahold of Tallmadge's elbow to steady him. Turning to his partner, Smith, Hickey finds the man gaping at the fresh puddle of bile covering their boots. "Well don't just stand there, go get help," he commands.

Smith snaps to attention. He does an about face and disappears into the mansion.

Hickey turns back to the Major. It's clear the man is fading fast. The Major's sweat-drenched skin glistens in the moonlight, making him appear all the more ashen. As the Major draws in ragged breath after ragged breath, his body trembles something fierce.

"Come on, Major, let's get you to the medical tent."

Tallmadge peers at him from beneath hooded lids and Hickey offers him a reassuring smile. He slips an arm around the Major's shoulders as his bloodshot eyes flicker towards the mansion.

"You need a doctor Major, you're not well."

Tallmadge doesn't move.

"Don't worry, LifeGuard Smith is waking the General, they'll be right behind us."

Tallmadge falters and Hickey tightens his grip. "Here, let me help."

The ailing Major leans heavy on him as they descend the steps. As they reach the edge of the yard Tallmadge's head droops low, and he stumbles along as they turn down a narrow gravel path.

At the end of the path sits an abandoned woodshed, not the medical tent. With a glance over his shoulder, Hickey smiles and enters the small structure, depositings the Major in an unceremonious heap on the floor. The Major lets out a groan but doesn't wake. With his hands on his hips, Hickey looks around. Spying a string of rope hanging on the back of the door, he grins.

Major Tallmadge's eyes crack open as Hickey finishes securing his ankles. Confusion washes over the Major's pale features and Hickey smirks, pulling the cord tight. "Sorry Major, no doctor here. And I can't have you running off."

Ben kicks at him, missing Hickey by a mile. A long mile.

With a sigh, Hickey slams his fist against Major Tallmadge's temple as hard as he can and Tallmadge lies still. He secures Tallmadge's wrists, gags him, and heads for the door. His hands wrap around the door handle, he pauses.

 _On second thought..._

He turns and delivers a swift kick to the Major's torso. Tallmadge doesn't move. Satisfied, Hickey cracks open the shed door. Certain no one is around, he slips into the night. As he follows the deer paths that wrap around the mansion, the moon filters in and out from the trees. On reaching the tree line on the opposite side of the woodshed, he inhales sharply, and takes off sprinting.


	12. Bloody Fog

_Dear Mr. Andrews:_

 _I regret to inform you there has been a delay as I was unable to eradicate the problem. I don't believe however, that it will have any effect on our previously discussed matter. I will write again soon to inform you of the progress made._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Mr. Leonard_

Lee sets his quill aside with a scowl. He stares long and hard at the words drying before him. The "problem" was a young Major Tallmadge, and the fact the man is still breathing is most unsettling. He lets out an elongated sigh.

Washington's a fool- giving Tallmadge all that power. No, he's beyond foolish, he's reckless. Tallmadge was a bloody school teacher. So what if he went to Yale? What does Yale have to do with war, with battlefields, with intelligence?

Lee frowns. There was however, one undeniable truth, though he'd never admit it outloud. Ever since General Scott had moved to the front lines they always seemed one step ahead of the British. Clearly he'd underestimated the determined young man. Clearly Tallmadge had connections.

His hands curl into fists. And he'd been so close to getting rid of Tallmadge for good! Now all hope for their plan to work rested on false intelligence reports. The idea being, they would spur Washington to move north, and into the waiting arms of the British.

But Washington wasn't moving.

 _Damnit!_ His fists slam against the desk in unison. A mug of brandy sloshes. Its amber liquid expands in every direction, covering everything in its path. Lee looks down to find the majority his letter to Andre in ruin, only the part about his failure remains. Lee's scowl deepens, even his brandy is mocking him.

…

Brush tears Hickey's skin as he breaks through the woodline. A torrent of sweat flows from his brow and blurring his vision. As his eyes narrow into slits, he pumps his arms harder and wills his legs to move faster still. He crosses the mansion's front lawn in under a minute. At the front steps he folds in half, shoulders heaving as he gasps for breath.

The front door opens wide and the darkness of night is overthrown. Hickey's head shoots up and he raises a hand to shield against the blinding light. Two silhouettes stand side by side in the door frame, one short and one tall.

"Where is Major Tallmadge?"

Hickey draws in a ragged breath. He wipes his sweaty brow.

"Ran off Your Excellency…I followed, but I...lost him, Sir."

The taller silhouette breaks from the doorway, materializing into Washington as it makes its way down the steps. He storms into the yard, stopping in the middle. His head swivels left to right.

"What do you mean- he ran off?" he asks the night.

"He came out here, puked his guts out, and then...just took off on me, Sir."

Washington spins on his heels. His black cloak twists around him, giving him a foreboding look. His arms cross over his chest as he fixes Hickey with a hard stare.

"He _took_ off?"

Hickey shifts his weight. "That's right."

"And how did he manage to get away from you," the short silhouette asks.

Hickey lifts his chin, flicking his eyes towards the top of the steps. He can't see the man's face, but he recognizes the voice. It's Mr. Sackett.

"Pushed me over, Sir. By the time I got to my feet he was at the woodline."

Washington brushes past him.

"Gather the Dragoons, and _find_ him."

Before the words _yes Sir_ can form on Hickey's lips Washington is mounting the Mansion's steps. In an instant, he's through the threshold and the front door slams shut, leaving Hickey once again in the dark. He turns from the mansion, but instead of heading for the Dragoons, he heads for the officers tents.

...

In the woodshed Bradford and Hickey stand shoulder to shoulder examining the still form at their feet. The small space feels cramped with three of them in it. Hickey glances over at Bradford, the man's eyes were gleaming. It made him want to shiver. Instead, he returns his gaze to the Major. His chest tightens. Was it possible for someone to be _too_ still?

"I might've hit'em a bit harder than I should've."

"Nonsense."

Bradford pulls the Major into a seated position. The way Tallmadge's head flops forward makes Hickey's stomach do a little flip. Bradford doesn't seem to notice. Hoisting Tallmadge over his shoulders, he lurches for the door and Hickey's eyes widen.

"Where are you going?"

"East."

It's the way Bradford says it, so nonchalant. It makes Hickey's skin crawl.

"I thought we were just going to rough him up a bit. Like that night at the bonfire."

Bradford smirks at Hickey when he steps in front of the door.

"Get out of my way."

The tone of Bradford's voice was most certainly a warning, but Hickey ignores it. Planting his feet wide he pushes Bradford back. Bradford fixes him with a glare, like a predator locking on prey, and Hickey bows his head before stepping aside.

…

As Caleb stumbles down the narrow path that leads towards camp, the dawn of a new day struggles against the grip of a dense fog. He shakes his head. Ben was probably going to kill him. He could hear the reprimand now. _What were you thinking, leaving camp without permission? Staying out all night?"_

In his defense, he hadn't intended to stay out _all_ night. After being cooped up at the mansion better part of three days, he needed to get out for a bit, sit by the water, clear his head, and just breathe. Before he knew it night had given way to dawn's first light. And-then the fog rolled in, turning everything to soup, and incidentally his ride home became a long walk on foot.

Pony lets out a snicker and Caleb's body propels backwards. As his senses return, Caleb turns to find Pony standing stock. He gives the horse a dirty look and yanks the reigns. Pony doesn't budge.

"Come on you, let's move."

Pony lifts his head higher, rotating his ears. Caleb scans the woods. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, but that's not saying much. He can't see more than two inches in this shite. He's about to give the reigns another tug, when he hears a voice calling out in the distance. He turns, trying to make out the words, when he sees a soft glow just to the east.

Soon it's joined by another and then another, until there's a whole host of them. They look like ghosts weaving through the trees, and it dawns on Caleb. They're lanterns. He shakes his head. _Poor bastards, probably couldn't see past their noses._ A second voice calls out, and Caleb stiffens. It sounded like they were calling for-

Ben?

Caleb frowns. He grabs a fist full of mane and he slides his boot into the left stirrup. Pushing off on his right foot, he swings a leg over the saddle and the click of his tongue, he races towards the nearest light. Pony weaves through the trees with ease, and he holds on tight.

The barrel of the gun comes first, followed by a "HALT!"

Caleb yanks the reigns in and Pony dances beneath him. He thrusts his hands in the air as the lantern he was aiming for floats towards them. From fog a small hand emerges, followed by an arm, and finally the body of a boy. Caleb breathes a sigh of relief. It's Jacob, the stablehand.

"Lower your bloody weapon, Jacob."

In his haste to comply Jacob fumbles, nearly dropping the weapon. Instinctively, Caleb squeezes his eyes, while he mentally prepares to get shot. The gun doesn't go off, and Caleb cracks an eye open to find the muzzle pointed in a safe direction. With a sharp exhale, he lowers his hands.

"What are you doing?"

Jacob's mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words, and Caleb's last nerve ebbs away.

"Looking for Major Tallmadge," the boy says, finally.

" _Why?"_

Jacob blinks.

"Nevermind."

Gathering the reigns in his hands, Caleb swings Pony's head around. With a sharp "Hah!" he urges the horse into a gallop. The camp comes into view and the gelding's speed picks up. Caleb doesn't slow him down. They weave through the tents, forcing men and women to jump aside. Their angry shouts fall on deaf ears as Caleb steers Pony towards the Ford Mansion.

...


	13. A Traitor's Package

Sackett pushes back the heavy drape framing the study window, the material thick and coarse against the back of his hand. A heavy fog has ascended on the landscape, making the normally bustling camp seem more like a ghost town. He knows the men are out there, rising for the day at hand, but the gray matter's so thick, he can't see them. Drafty window panes fill the room with the chill of the early morning air, the cold wraps around his chest like an omen of pending trouble. He's about to turn away to seek warmth by the hearth when a silhouette breaks through the veil, it's pace clipped and determined as it approaches the front steps.

Sackett frowns when he recognizes the figure as Dr. Jackson, then continues on his way toward the fireplace where he sinks into a chair.

The study door cracks open as if on cue, and Billy's head peeks in. "The doctor is here."

Sackett opens a book and gives Billy a nod. From the corner of his eye, Sackett catches the hesitant smile the doctor gives Billy as he slips past him into the room. When the door clicks shut, Sackett absently turns another page in his book.

Doctor Jackson moves towards Washington's desk, where he stops and thrums his fingers against the wooden surface. Uncomfortable silence fills the space between the two men until the Doctor removes a silver timepiece from his pocket, and glances at its face."Will his Excellency be joining us soon?"

Sackett turns another page. "He'll be here shortly."

"It's just I have patients to attend to and-"

Doctor Jackson is cut off by heavy footsteps crossing the foyer. The door swings open, and Washington enters the room. A breath of cool air follows the General into the study, and the flames of the fire flicker. Sharp angled shadows dance across the room. Sackett watches his old friend grace Doctor Jackson with a nod before taking a seat at his desk.

From beneath his cloak Washington removes a folder. He lays it on the desk. "Have a seat Doctor."

Dr. Jackson remains standing, his eyes bouncing between the folder and Washington. "Forgive me Your Excellency, would you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"Certainly. How long have you been a doctor, Mr. Jackson?"

Doctor Jackson's brow furrows. "I'm sorry?"

Washington fixes the doctor with a hard stare. "How. Long. Have you… been a doctor, Mr. Jackson."

Doctor Jackson's jaw tenses. Slowly, he takes a seat. "Ten, no, eleven years."

Washington leans back, opening the file. "And, how many patients have you given laudanum?"

The doctor's eyes widen, he shakes his head. "I can't be sure."

Washington offers him a thin smile. "An educated guess will do."

Dr. Jackson lips scrunch together. "Hu-hundreds…maybe?

"I see."

Washington seizes an ink pen. For a moment, the only sound in the room is a scratching noise as the pen dances across the pages of a notebook. After scribbling a few lines, Washington turns his attention back to the file and silence once again fills the room. The longer it stretches the more Doctor Jackson's leg begins to bounce, which Sackett believes is Washington's intention. Washington closes the folder and leans forward."Have you ever given a patient too much laudanum?"

Doctor Jackson's leg stops bouncing. "No."

Sackett snorts. "Curious."

Doctor Jackson's head snaps towards Sackett. "You believe otherwise, sir?"

"I do."

Crimson creeps up the Doctor's neck into his face. "How dare you question my capabilities!"

Heat floods Sackett's cheeks, his vision colors red. He leaps to his feet, crossing the room before his book hits the ground. Doctor Jackson backs towards the door, but not fast enough. Sackett's fist curls around the lapels of doctor's coat; he's so close he can smell the doctor's aftershave. Not normally prone to violence, Sackett is surprised how deeply satisfying he finds it when the doctor flinches.

"That's enough!" Washington's voice bounces off the walls.

One finger at a time, Sackett releases his grip.

Doctor Jackson scurries away, pointing an accusing finger in Sackett's direction."That man is insane."

Sackett grins, he can't help it. He's seen the doctor's expression on the faces of other men right before they broke, and glances at Washington triumphantly.

Like a slow moving storm, Washington's features darken, causing the grin to slip from Sackett's face. Sackett glances at the door behind him, certain someone has entered the room during the comotion, for surely that look wasn't meant for him.

Washington's scowl deepens. "You are dismissed, Mr. Sackett."

"Sir?"

An awful screeching noise shatters the silence as Washington's chair legs scrape against wooden floorboards. Washington crosses the room in record time, and yet somehow it feels like an eternity. Sackett's begins to heart hammer as Washington moves towards the study door.

He holds his hands up in supplication. "You're Excellency, please. I meant no harm, it's just that…"

Washington reaches the door and pulls open the door. He steps aside, his face a mask of stone. Sackett's hand falls to his side. He'd seen that look from Washington enough times to know arguing would be futile. Shaking his head, he storms from the room.

…

Washington closes the door and returns to his desk where he sinks into his chair with a sigh. His gaze drifts out the window where dark clouds hang low. With the absence of sun, the fog rolls about freely. Heavy and thick, it wraps around the Ford property like a wool blanket, reducing the fall landscape to muted shades of gray. It's a forbidding scene, one in which Washington can relate. With a missing head of intelligence, conflicting reports, and a growing divide within the army, it seems fate was painting a bleak picture of its own.

In the corner of Washington's eye Doctor Jackson shifts and a subtle cough pulls his attention away from the dark thoughts. He glances at his desk. A crisp edged file stares at him, drawing him back to the task at hand. In it's right hand corner, _Major Benjamin Tallmadge_ , is written in neat compact letters. Washington drags a finger across the name. He doesn't bother opening the file; he doesn't have to. He'd spent the morning pouring over it's limited contents.

He shakes his head and returns his gaze to the doctor. "Would you please have a seat Mr. Jackson."

"It's Doctor, Your Excellency"

Washington's lips press into a thin line. "My apologies. Please, have a seat _Doctor_."

The study door cracks open and Doctor Jackson jumps back as Billy slips carefully through the door frame, carrying a silver tray. In the center of the tray sits a pot. A breath of steam whispers up from its spout. The doctor's eyes flash towards the study door as Billy passes by. His slender hand pulls at the nape of his neck

Twin porcelain cups rattle as Billy sets the tray on the writing desk. As a delicate earthy aroma fills Washington's nostrils, the smallest smile turns up the corners of his mouth. A hot cup of coffee is just what he needed. Washington nods his thanks and flicks his gaze towards the doctor.

Billy turns to face the cowering man. "Coffee, sir?"

Doctor Jackson's shoulders slump. He makes his way towards his former chair where he takes a seat on the edge and plants his feet firmly beneath him. "Coffee sounds lovely."

Billy smiles and fills the second porcelain cup, leaving just enough room for cream and sugar, which the doctor declines. With a nod, Billy passes the steaming cup to Doctor Jackson. He accepts it with a trembling hand.

Washington takes a tentative sip of his coffee, savoring the bold flavor of nuts and dark chocolate. It's silky texture is near perfection and the temperature is perfect. He resists the urge to close his eyes and lose himself in the small comfort. Beneath the steaming coffee cup, Benjamin Tallmadge's medical file stares up at him.

"I'd like to discuss your treatment regarding Major Tallmadge."

Doctor Jackson's eyes widen, than narrow. "What about it?"

With two fingers, Washington slides the file across the desk. "These are your medical notes, are they not?"

"Yes."

Washington leans forward, opens the file, and turns to the first page. "I'm curious Doctor, your first examination of the Major in his tent is remarkably detailed, as well as your examination of him in the medical tent when he and Lieutenant Brewster were brought in."

"My notes are always thorough."

"Yes, I know. I've reviewed several of your patient's files and notes."

Doctor Jackson's jaw tightens. "Why?"

Washington rests his forearms on the desk and interlaces his hands. "Would you turn to page seven, please?"

After regarding Washington for a long moment, Doctor Jackson leans forwards. With a flick of his wrist he turns the folder towards him, and flips to page seven. Washington swears the man turns a shade lighter. He skims the page over and over again.

"Your notes seem to lack content after your second examination."

Doctor Jackson gapes. "I...I don't know what to say."

Washington's eyes narrow. "If you turn to the previous seven pages, you'll find every symptom is noted, every dose of medication documented-"

"Yes I know. I wrote them."

"Would you agree then, that the last pages are not an accurate representation of the care Major Tallmadge's received?"

Doctor Jackson flips through his notes again. Pausing at page seven, he squints at the page while chewing at his bottom lip. He skims through three more pages before looking up.

"I agree that my notes appear to be lacking towards the end Major Tallmadge's care but may I remind you, Your Excellency, Major Tallmadge was often in a state of hysteria. Perhaps I missed a few recordings in all the chaos."

Washington flips open his notebook. "Yes, I considered that possibility myself, until I looked through the files of your other patients." His finger moves down a page in his notes, pausing at the word Brandywine. "Specifically the patients you treated following the loss at Brandywine Creek."

"What do my patients from Brandywine Creek have to do with Benjamin Tallmadge?"

Washington looks up from his notes. "Excellent question."

Doctor Jackson tilts his head.

"From what I gathered, you treated over a hundred patients in the aftermath of the battle. A very chaotic time, would you agree?"

"Of course it was."

"And yet, your patient's files during that time period are impeccably detailed."

Doctor Jackson presses a fist to his lips. His gaze drifts past Washington towards the window where it fixes on some unseen object.

"There is something else."

Doctor Jackson remains silent, but his eyes flick back towards Washington.

"None of your other patients presented symptoms similar to Major Tallmadge's under your care." Washington leans back, studying the doctor intently. "It seems, you are a man committed to detail, and an otherwise excellent doctor." He gestures towards the Major's file. "Except in this case."

Doctor Jackson licks his lips. "Every-" he starts, before his voice breaks. "Everyone makes mistakes."

Washington stiffens. "Yes, but what if the mistake is intentional?"

Doctor Jackson bows his head and gazes into his lap. For a long while, he doesn't speak. When he finally does, the fire crackling nearly drowns out his reply. "You really think I would intentionally hurt a patient?"

Washington takes in the doctor's slumped shoulders, averted gaze and dejected tone of voice, and considers the cost of the alleged mistake. A bedridden and now missing Major, loss of vital information, and intelligence reports. Under normal circumstances, a dismissal would be more than warranted. But there was already a shortage of doctors, and with smallpox running rampant, the army needed every trained medical professional available.

He sighs. At least by sparing Doctor Jackson he could keep him under observation and perhaps the true nature of this _mistake_ would be revealed. "I trust that this mistake won't happen again?"

Doctor Jackson releases a sharp exhale. "No, Your Excellency. You have my word."

"Good, you are dismissed."

A smile stretches across Doctor Jackson's face. "Thank you, Sir."

Washington closes Major Tallmadge's medical file and hands it to Doctor Jackson. He stands, picks up his notebook and stack of daily dispatches. Without another word exits the study. In the foyer he greets his servant with a small smile. "Would you please see Doctor Jackson out, Billy."

…

In Philadelphia, torrential rain beats against the window panes of a brick two story mansion formerly belonging to Benjamin Franklin. Wind howls down the chimney, sending drafty cold air across the parlor where General Clinton and Major Andre sit before an open flame. A frown tugs at Clinton's lips as his eyes roam over the cream colored stationary he is reading. Seated in a french-blue chair across the from him, Andre does his best to ignore the disappointment in his commanding officer's features.

Clinton sets the letter down. "It appears General Lee is not the mole you thought he'd be."

Major John Andre's jaw sets. Heat flushes his cheeks as he casts a sideways glances at the older man. He takes a sip of brandy. The burning liquid does little to chase away the gloom of this miserable morning. Correction, miserable week. Prior to receiving this letter, Lee had gone silent. The longer the silence stretched, the more he'd become convinced Lee was not only a traitor, but a bad one, and proof of that had arrived with his letter. "So it seems."

"Ah well, I'm sure you'll come up with another scheme. Perhaps something a little less, scandalous this time?"

Andre tips back the rest of his brandy. He sets the glass down with a sharp bang. "Perhaps."

Clinton smiles. "We've all had our successes and failures in the field."

Though he doesn't feel much like smiling, Andre offers a half smile in return. He appreciates Clinton's confidence, but it doesn't make the failure any easier. He'd pulled so many strings to set the stage of this botched endeavor. Strings that he feared, couldn't be unpulled.

A hollow knock echoes from the foyer, Andre welcomes the unexpected relief. "Come in."

Both Andre and Clinton turn to the door as his servant, Abigail, enters. Concern shines bright in her dark eyes. "Sorry to bother you, Sir. But there's a boy here to see you."

Andre offers her a warm smile. "No bother Abigale. Send him in."

Abigail nods and exits the room. Moments later a boy, about sixteen, enters. Andre recognizes him as the son of one of his rebel camp informants, Reverend Worthington. The boy is soaked through and his body entire body shakes as he shivers. Andre's brows knit together. "Will?"

The boy removes a knitted cap. His eyes shift from Andre, to Clinton, and back to Andre again. He removes a note from his pocket and holds it out to Andre with a trembling hand. "A message from Mr. Leonard, Sir."

Andre and Clinton look at each other. Blinking rapidly, Andre clears his throat and accepts the letter. He quickly tears open the envelope and unfolds the letter.

 _Dear Mr. Andrews,_

 _Though I was unable eradicate the problem as originally discussed, an opportunity to relocate the parcel arose. I am sending it your way to do with as you please. I trust you know the location to pick it up._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Mr. Leonard._

A broad smile splits Andre's face. He jumps to his feet and runs out of the parlor. In the foyer he greets the doorman. "Paul, find Gamble and tell him there's a very important package I need him to pick up. Immediately."

...

Pain overwhelms Ben's senses, a burning sensation rises in his throat. He gasps, but instead of air his lungs fill with a caustic liquid and he starts to choke. Someone slaps his back. White hot pain sears through his ribcage with every strike. His vision dances and the world grows hazy. The hand keeps striking, harder and harder. He coughs, maybe vomits, he can't tell which.

But his lungs clear, and now that oxygen has been restored, exhaustion takes hold. He's about to surrender to blessed unconsciousness, when a rustling noise forces him awake. He lies still, eyes closed, trying not to breathe.

The rustling stops. The only sound is his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He releases a jagged breath, cracks his eyes open.

A blurry figure moves across his vision. Ben back pedals across the dirt. The ground beneath him tilts sideways, black dots fill his vision, and the shadow moves away. Ben blinks. "Caleb?" Alarmed at the weakness in his voice, he coughs, and tries again. "Caleb?"

The figure doesn't answer, it just moves further away.

"Wait." Ben tries to get up, but his feet won't cooperate. Gazing down he finds his wrists and ankles bound with thick ropes.

Darkness peppers his vision like spilled ink blots, and a shrill ring exasperates the pounding in his head. Closing his eyes he folds forward. His forehead rests on a damp and mushy floor. _Why is the floor damp?"_

Ben opens his eyes. Then swallowing against the sudden nausea roiling in his stomach, he raises his head and waits for the black edges of his vision to rescind.

When his vision clears, he realizes he's kneeling in a grassy patch of forest surrounded by a blanket of fog. Damp leaves beneath his scratched and tender hands, freeze his moisture seeps through his stained and tattered breeches.

A twig snaps behind him and he freezes. He twists to look over his shoulder, ignoring protesting ribs as he scans the treeline. Another twig snaps. This one sounding closer. Dragging himself towards the treeline, he crawls beneath a patch of thick underbrush.

As more twigs snap, he searches frantically for something to use as a weapon. His hands wrap around a large mossy stone. His fingers, numb with cold, slip as he tries to gain better purchase. At last it breaks free from the damp ground. With one hand curled around the rock he inches forward on his belly until he reaches a tree large enough to conceal him.

"Going somewhere, Major?"

Ben drops the rock, whips around. "Bradford?"


End file.
